


Confetti and PT

by PumpkinDoodles



Series: Taserbones Tumblr Prompts & Tiny (Adorkable) Fics [52]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Scarred! Brock, She has a fiancé, Triple Agent! Rumlow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinDoodles/pseuds/PumpkinDoodles
Summary: Darcy recognizes the burned man in the DC hospital bed.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Series: Taserbones Tumblr Prompts & Tiny (Adorkable) Fics [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484168
Comments: 442
Kudos: 671





	1. Hello Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shenandoah76209](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenandoah76209/gifts).



> *I own nothing! Not fully back to post-concussion wellness, but I miss writing and Shenandoah76209 asked for a scarred Brock fic and this is the beginning of one that I’ve eked out on my phone.

“Who is that?” Darcy asked Sam Wilson, peering into the hospital door window. There was a badly burned man in the bed. He looked familiar. Darcy, Thor, and Jane were visiting DC--purely by coincidence--in the days after the failed HYDRA Uprising. Darcy had left the couple joking with Steve while she and Sam went in search of coffee. The man looked familiar, she realized.

“Rumlow,” Sam said, frowning. He sighed. “He didn’t tell me that he was feeding information to Coulson.”

“Oh,” Darcy said, looking into the window. The sleeping man twitched. She knew him from SHIELD’s post-Convergence clean up. He had once been good-looking—and kind to her.

“We could’ve gotten him out,” Sam said. “But he had to give that damn speech to the HYDRA guys on comms.” His voice was grim. Darcy smiled gently. 

“You can’t help what people do,” she said, trying to reassure him. He shook his head. “Really!” Darcy insisted. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I just wish I could do something.”

“He doesn’t have family? A girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?” she asked.

“No,” Sam said. “None of that. His nearest relatives are in New York. Nobody in DC.” 

That gave her an idea.

* * *

  
“Why are you buying a cactus?” Jane asked, squinting in the sun. They were at a garden center. Darcy was picking a plant.

“It’s a gift for one of the sick SHIELD guys,” Darcy replied. 

“Oh.” Jane paused. “Are we not telling Ian?” Her voice was canny.

“We are not,” Darcy admitted slowly. She and Ian were going through a weird patch. They were officially engaged but had gone on a break while he did a six month job in Norway and she and Jane did some lecturing and traveling. Their last visit a few weeks ago had been slightly stilted. Darcy felt like they didn’t know how to behave around each other yet. It felt like the relationship equivalent of two people awkwardly trying to pass one another in a hallway. 

“Would you mind if I took this job Fury’s offered me--both of us, really?” Jane said.

“Do I get health insurance?” Darcy asked, unable to keep the happy note out of her voice.

* * *

Darcy pushed the hospital room door open as quietly as possible. Agent Rumlow was asleep. She set the cactus down gently on the little table by the bed. It looked bright and green against the pale laminate surface. She was futzing with the bow on the cactus when he spoke. “Who are you?” he rasped. Darcy jumped.

“Hi,” Darcy said nervously. “I’m Darcy. Darcy Lewis? Jane Foster’s assistant? We met in London—do you need water?” She picked up the pitcher by the bed and gestured. He looked at it, blinking.

“Oh. Yeah,” he said. His voice was low and rough with sleep. He drank the water she handed him. She watched him, feeling anxious that he might drop the cup. The wounds on his skin oozed. His fingers were terribly burned and raw. He passed the cup back and studied her. “I remember you,” he said. “You asked for Phil. Lots of voicemails.”

“Yes. Only no one told me he was dead,” Darcy said. 

“He’s not dead,” Rumlow said.

“I heard.” Darcy paused. “I brought you a plant.”

“Yeah?” he said, craning his chin to look at the plant. “Nice of you. You wanna sit?” he said.

“Sure.” Darcy felt relieved he didn’t think she was a weirdo. “I thought you might want company,” she told him. He nodded. She took that as another good sign and kept talking. “Plants are supposed to make you feel better,” she said.

“It’s gonna take a lot of fucking cactuses,” he said, making an odd sound. Darcy realized he was chuckling. 

She sat with him for a while, just talking. They talked about mutual acquaintances and she joked about tracking Phil down for her iPod. She was careful to avoid his injuries or prognosis. “I could, um, bring you things?” Darcy offered. “Books? Board games?”

“Board games?” he said. 

“Scrabble can get intense, it might not be appropriate,” she joked. She talked to him until he got quiet, then told him she’d go. “I’ll let you get some rest,” she said. He frowned.

“I’m awake,” he said, sounding stubborn. So she stayed, channel surfing for him. They had both nodded off when the hospital room door opened. 

“Brock!” a female voice said. Darcy opened her eyes slowly. Someone was leaning over him. 

“Ma, hey,” he said and she felt herself relax. This was his mother. Perfectly safe and non-HYDRA related. Nothing to worry about. “I woulda called, but I was in a coma,” he said.

“A coma?” his mother said. Her gulp was audible to Darcy. “Honey,” she whispered, leaning in. Even Darcy could see the shock on her face as she took in his injuries.

“I think I look pretty good,” he said. He turned his head towards Darcy. “This is my mother, Angela. Ma, this is Darcy.”

“Hi,” Darcy said, feeling oddly nervous. She did an awkward wave. Angela looked at her, clearly trying not to cry. She seemed surprised to see her curled up in the chair. “Should I give you some mother son time?” Darcy offered, getting up. She started gathering the things she’d brought with her. “Why don’t you keep these magazines? And I can bring you books, Brock, if you want stuff to read,” Darcy said.

“This is your girlfriend?” Angela said.

“No,” he said, “uhhh. She’s a friend?” His voice was doubtful.

“I have a fiancé,” Darcy explained, pausing and looking up.

“You do?” Brock said. Angela turned back to him. 

“Ian works in Norway,” Darcy said, holding up her hand with a gesture. Ian had given her an heirloom ring. It wasn’t very visible. People tended to miss it. “Brock and I were both in London during the Convergence. I’m Jane Foster’s assistant.”

“Right,” Brock said, more confident.

“You know Thor?” Angela asked.

“I do,” Darcy said.

“Is he just as good-looking--?” Angela said.

“Yup. Also, tall.” Darcy slung her messenger over her shoulder. “Goodnight. It's very nice to meet you,” she told his mother.

“You’re coming back, right?” Brock said. “She’s been threatening me with board games, Ma.” Darcy smiled.

“If you want me to, I can come back tomorrow,” she said. His mother was looking between them oddly. “Bye,” she said, waving again. “Don't do anything heroic when I’m not here to see it.”

“Sure,” he said, doing that dry chuckle again.

The hospital door was still swinging open behind her when she heard Angela speak. “She’s very pretty,” she told her son. “I just assumed…”

“Fiancé, Ma.” He sighed. “I think you can stop assuming that one from here on out.” His voice was bitter. The door clicked shut. Darcy paused, leaning against the wall and straining to hear their voices, dulled by the glass. There was a fragment of conversation, then it sounded like someone was crying. She couldn't tell who.


	2. Visiting Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Darcy had just rounded the corner in the hospital hallway when Angela came stomping out of his room the next morning. “Oh, hello, honey,” Angela said. She looked upset.

“Everything okay? Do you need a doctor?” Darcy asked, worried something was wrong.

“We’re fighting. My son is hard-headed and won’t listen,” Angela said. “He keeps trying to get up by himself, he doesn't want help--” She gestured and her eyes looked teary. “I know he’s gonna hurt himself.”

“Oh,” Darcy said. “He’s probably used to being so active…”

“He’s stubborn. Fifty years old and stubborn,” Angela said, crossing her arms. 

“He’s _what_?” Darcy said, before she caught herself. Then she tried to cover her shock. “You can’t have a son that age, as young as you look,” she added. 

“He gets it from my side of the family,” Angela said, evidently not insulted. She sighed and frowned again. “He thinks he can handle everything all by himself.”

“Maybe Maria Hill can talk to him?” Darcy offered. “I just saw her down the hall--”

“Good idea,” Angela said. Abruptly, she hugged Darcy. “You’re a smart girl. He won't listen to me, but she could fire him. He loves that job--I’ll go get her.”

“Okay?” Darcy said, not expecting things to escalate so quickly. She’d just thought Maria could give him a stern look or something.

“You keep him distracted, he likes you,” Angela said, practically power walking away in search of SHIELD’s assistant director. Darcy watched her go and then got curious. She walked to his door.

“What now?” Brock said, as Darcy stepped in. He sounded grumpy. He’d been lying there with his eyes closed. Pouting, she realized. Fifty and pouty! She wanted to giggle. She smothered the impulse.

“Hi,” Darcy said, trying not to grin too widely.

“Oh. Sorry. Thought you were Ma,” he said, actually looking at her. He paused. “She’s been driving me crazy. I love her, but she makes me crazy.” He sighed.

“Uh-huh,” Darcy said, crossing the room. She poured him a cup of water. He looked at her.

“This is not new,” he explained. She passed him the cup. “Thank you. She likes her way, I like mine. We butt heads, you know?” He took a long sip.

“Sure,” Darcy said smoothly. He coughed a little.

“But usually we’re fine. Not now. Now she’s all fussing over me, now she wants me to talk to Father Mike, the new priest. I say to her, ‘ _Ma, I’m not talking to a priest, much less the one you like because he’s thirty-eight and looks like Mark Consuelos’_ and that pissed her off,” Brock explained, doing air quotes as he held the cup.

“You have to admit that Mark Consuelos is pretty handsome, though,” Darcy said slyly.

“Don’t you dare, Lewis. Not you, too. You’re not Catholic, are you?” he said, frowning. He pointed admonishingly at her with one of his burned fingers. She realized the cup was empty.

“Nope,” she said. “And I haven’t been to church since I was eight and started asking uncomfortable questions about murder and smiting.” Darcy grinned. “Lemme get you more water?”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, voice warm with relief.

“Yeah?” Darcy said, taking the cup.

“I’m fucking thirsty,” he confessed, “but every time she gives me water, she wants to chaperone me to the goddamn bathroom.” Darcy couldn’t help it: she laughed. “Cut that out,” he grumbled. She gave him all the water he wanted and found him something to watch on TV. “The Rock?” Brock said. “You like the Rock?”

“He’s fun,” Darcy insisted. “His ultra masculinity is very safe and playful, somehow. He’s like the male Dolly Parton.”

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. He grinned at her. “You’re a strange little person, you know that?”

“I’m strange _and_ unusual,” Darcy said, quoting Winona Ryder in _Beetlejuice._ She had been obsessed with the star as a teen.

“Uh-huh,” Brock said mildly. She thought it went right over his head, but he’d been older than she realized in the nineties.

“What is it?” Darcy asked Brock, twenty minutes later. He was shifting a little in bed. She was afraid he was hurting. “Do you need meds?” 

“No,” he said, grimacing. “I just gotta pee. Fuck.” 

“Ohhh,” Darcy said, nervous about getting him out of bed. She thought he might be resistant. It turned out, however, that she could convince him to use the wheelchair in the corner of the room by pretending to be afraid she’d fall trying to help him out of bed. She wheeled it over.

“Thanks, Lewis,” he said.

“You’ve gotta admit, leg injuries are the one time men have it more difficult than women in this department. Normally, you can just pee anywhere,” Darcy said, pushing him towards the adjacent bathroom. He snorted.

“I can take it from here,” he said, when she got him over the threshold.

“Okay,” Darcy said. “Just use the handrails. If you fall, your mom will blame me.” He nodded. She stood outside the bathroom, feeling anxious and weird at the same time. She’d gotten him safely back into bed when he grinned at her again. “What?” she asked.

“Ma’s got you scared,” Brock said.

“Shut up,” Darcy grumbled. “Watch the Rock and maybe I’ll snag you some Cheez-Itz.”

“Those aren’t food,” he said.

“They’re better than Jell-O,” Darcy said, feeling defensive.

“Fuck yeah,” he said. “Everything's better than that. I told ‘em I’m not eating it.”

“Cosby kinda ruined Jell-O for me,” she said wistfully. “Even the pudding.”

“People have a way of doing that,” he said. She raised her eyebrows. Brock chuckled. “Ruining things for you. One day when I’m better, I’ll tell you about being Alexander Pierce’s protégé.”

They were still watching TV when Angela and Maria came back in. Angela had clearly been crying and Maria looked upset, which was strange. Maria never looked upset. “Hey, Ma,” Brock said. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry that I yelled.”

“Oh,” Angela said, startled and emotional all at once. “It’s all right, honey. I had totally forgotten!” She was clearly lying.

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. They stood around talking with faux cheerfulness until he looked tired.

“Can I have a word?” Maria said to Darcy.

“Sure,” Darcy said. To her surprise, Angela followed them out into the hallway. “What’s going on?” Darcy asked.

“My son needs help,” Angela cut in, glaring at Maria.

“I thought that maybe—since Jane’s lab isn’t ready—you might be interested in staying with him once he’s released?” Maria said to Darcy. Darcy looked at Angela in confusion.

“You’re not staying?” she asked.

“I want to,” Angela said, voice mournful, “but he’d fight me on everything.”

“I’ve explained that you are very good with difficult people—and you’ll be well-compensated on top of your regular salary,” Maria said.

“Okay,” Darcy said. Jane was already paying her out of their budget. She frowned. “But will he be happy?” she wondered. “That’s what I was thinking?”

“He’ll behave better for you,” Angela said. They were both looking at her.

“As long as he’s okay with it,” Darcy said. “That’s my concern.”

“Just call me when you decide,” Maria said.

When Maria walked away, Darcy looked at Angela. “Is everything okay?” she asked. She meant between Maria and her. But Angela burst into tears.

“No,” she said, crumpling into Darcy’s awkward hug. “He’s so hurt,” she sobbed. “These people, they did this to my son. They took so much from him. And I can’t even help him.” Darcy guided her to a bench, unsure of what to say. Finally, Angela was able to speak. “I just hate SHIELD,” she said bitterly. 

“I understand,” Darcy said. She had found tissues in her bag. Angela looked at her, expression raw. Her eyes were bloodshot and ringed with smeared mascara.

“I don’t wanna pressure you, honey,” Angela said. “If you can’t take this job—just keep visiting him?” Her voice was pleading.

“I _like_ visiting him,” Darcy said. “I‘ll come until he gets sick of me.” She hoped that would make Angela feel better—and she meant it.

“I don’t want him to be alone. His father, he was bad at being alone,” Angela said. Darcy nodded. “He puts up a front, makes you think he’s strong,” she said, voice going soft and trailing off. The other woman shook her head. “I can tell. He’s not himself. And he never apologizes.”

“Yeah?” Darcy said softly. She let Angela be quiet for a few minutes.

“I’ve never screamed at somebody in a hospital before, but I screamed at that Maria,” Angela confessed.

“Jane has taken a swing at lots of SHIELD people,” Darcy said.

“Oh,” Angela said. She started to laugh. It was an edgy, almost hysterical sound. “Could she teach me?” 

* * *

Darcy started visiting Brock daily, as promised—even when he and Angela squabbled constantly and it made him crabby. She learned to let it wash over her as she sat in the room, painting her nails or reading him things. He and Angela just snapped at each other, not her. Both of them would yell and then be fine five minutes later. Or there would be tears and hugs. None of the bad feelings seemed to stick, oddly. Only he looked sheepish afterwards. He would reflexively order things—he had a phone—to be delivered when they were both snippy and he must’ve felt guilty or embarrassed. Darcy was the recipient of one of those giant cookies, a plush from the hospital gift shop, and a pesto pizza, all in one week. His mother always got flowers. Angela loved flowers, Darcy realized. While Darcy got pizza, she got pink roses, bright lilies, and fluffy peonies. Darcy had to ask what the peonies were, to Angela’s dismay. “Your fiancé doesn’t buy you flowers, honey?” she asked. 

“Gosh, no,” Darcy said. “He’s very into ecological things. He’d probably think florists are bad for the environment.” 

“What?” Angela said. “Why would flowers be bad for the environment? They’re flowers!”

“This morning, they had a long talk about tofu cheesecake, Ma,” Brock said dryly. He’d been watching them.

“I thought you were asleep then,” Darcy said. Ian had called from Norway. He often tried new dietary things. He’d gone to all whole wheat pastas, given up red meat for fish, and was now majorly into tofu, it seemed. She didn't mind him having food enthusiasms, even if she probably preferred cheddar to tofu feta. She was happy to try his tofu cheesecake, though. He had promised her coffee tofu cheesecake.

“Are you listening to her calls?” Angela said. “Who raised you?”

“Like you don’t listen to everybody’s calls? You eavesdropped on that guy at PT this afternoon,” Brock said pointedly.

“He was asking about hotels in the city, I was helping him,” Angela insisted. They began to bicker again and Darcy had to suppress a grin. 

She’d started to study it, identifying when either of them were about to be dramatic and reporting it to Jane in jokey, wildlife documentary type emails: _The patient appears regretful after his latest outburst, but the mother is pretending nothing is wrong. His gift of flowers—multicolored tulips, this time—is being treated as an unrelated event. Updates shall continue tomorrow._

All her people were gone: Jane and Thor were taking a romantic trip while Jane’s lab was being set up and Ian was finishing his work and articles in Norway, so she had plenty of free time. Being alone in her apartment was much less entertaining than doing the same activities in Rumlow’s hospital room. She got to watch him and his mother bicker and meet all the STRIKE dudes when they visited. Everyone was very impressed that she knew Thor. “You know she’s the one that tased him?” Rumlow told an Australian named Rollins.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “You’re that ‘un, darl?”

“I am,” Darcy said proudly.


	3. I Wanted to Name The Cactus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“I’ve packed the last of my things,” Angela said, “and my plane leaves at two tomorrow, so if you need something, tell me right now. I don’t want you to call me and not have all your prescriptions!”

“Ma, don’t worry,” Brock said, sitting up in his hospital bed. “I’m fine.” They had been bickering over what she could do before she left today. 

“What if you need something?” Angela said. She looked at Darcy. “Do you hear him?” Darcy didn’t know how to respond. She looked at Brock for guidance. He was grimacing. “I’m moving back my flight another day,” Angela announced.

“Ma,” Brock said, sighing. “I’ve got it all covered.”

“I’ll make sure he gets all his meds, don’t worry,” Darcy said. “And I can totally take you to the airport, really—”

“Oh, no, I don’t want you to be put out,” Angela said quickly.

“Do you hear yourself?” Brock said to his mother, voice amused. “She’s no better than me.” The last line was directed at Darcy. 

“Don’t you start,” Angela said. “Be nice to her. She’s been very good to you! She’s young, she could be out doing _whatever_.” Angela gestured emphatically.

“I’d probably just be home,” Darcy said. “Trying to teach myself to knit and swearing, maybe watching something on Netflix.” 

“Do you see how sweet she is?” Angela said to Brock.

“Yes, Ma,” he said. Darcy shook her head as he nodded. She had a secret fear that she was actually boring. She didn’t really like nightclubs. Other than the trouble she got in with Jane, her big issues were weird mishaps: slipping on ice, spending too much on fancy birthday underwear that Ian never noticed, getting food spills on her sweater sleeves.

“I’m confirming the flight,” Angela said, leaving the room.

“Thank you,” he said to Darcy. He sounded relieved. “I don’t know what you’re giving up—”

“I really would be cussing at knitting needles and sending Jane long emails,” Darcy said. She and Thor were somewhere in Canada, trying to catch the Northern Lights. “Watching a Jane Austen movie, maybe. Did you want to watch _Pride and Prejudice_ while your mom’s here?” she teased. 

“That’s just mean,” he said. But he actually brought it up in front of Angela and Darcy found herself watching it with both of them. “Her fiancé is one of these Hugh Grant guys,” he told his mother, mid-movie.

“Really?” Angela said.

“Yep,” Darcy said. “Has the accent and everything.”

“Those English people always sound so smart,” Angela said.

“That’s how Ian got his degrees,” Darcy joked. “They give them out with the accent.” Brock snorted. 

Darcy wasn’t entirely sure, but she could swear that he even looked pissed when it seemed like Lizzy was going to end up in a bad situation.

“Why does the cousin get the big house?” Brock asked.

“Sexism,” Darcy said. 

“That’s true,” Angela said. “Your sister would say that.”

“You have a sister?” Darcy asked.

“Fallon,” he said. “Ma named her after the _Dynasty_ girl.”

“ _She_ likes her name,” Angela said hotly.

“It’s very pretty,” Darcy said. 

“My name is fine, Ma,” he said. “I’m used to it now.”

She tapped out another email to Jane while Brock slept after watching Keira Knightley skip around pastoral England: _Patient and mother appear to be escalating their disputes in advance of separation. I suspect it is a defensive display, designed to mask feelings of sadness. Also, he got her roses this morning.  
  
_

* * *

  
Once Angela left DC, she started going with him to physical therapy, too. “Eight out of ten!” Darcy said, holding up a sheet of paper. Several feet away, Brock was taking a few shaky steps. His fingers gripped the balance bars as the physical therapist stood behind him. Darcy noticed his knuckles were white. But he managed to grin at her. 

“Thanks,” he said.

“What are we doing?” the therapist said. This therapist was new.

“She’s being the Olympic judge today,” Brock said.

“I’m Bulgarian, that’s my backstory,” Darcy announced.

“Oh,” the therapist said.

“His dismount is improving,” Darcy said.

“Yes,” the therapist said politely, as if she dealt with lunatics all the time.

“She put googly eyes on my cactus this morning,” Rumlow said, grinning so widely that his facial wounds stretched.

“He refuses to let me name him. The cactus, I mean,” Darcy snitched. 

“Because you know my name,” Brock said. She teased him about it when Angela wasn’t around.

“I thought the googly eyes would make him feel guilt,” Darcy said. “You, not the cactus.”

“Nope,” Brock said. He looked at the therapist. “My pal here’s very colorful.” Darcy scoffed. Then they had a tiny scare. As she watched, he wobbled slightly and Darcy held her breath. And tried not to panic. Rumlow caught himself with a wince as she looked on anxiously. “Don’t freak out,” he told her.

“I’m not freaking out,” Darcy insisted.

“She was freaking out,” he told the therapist. But then he stumbled again and looked sheepish.

“Nine and a half,” Darcy said, trying to cheer him up. He was hard on himself and got easily frustrated. She swapped her sign. 

“She never gives me less than a seven,” he said.

“Easy grader?” the therapist asked.

“Total softie,” he agreed.

“Booo!” Darcy called out, secretly pleased by how much he seemed to like her. She liked hanging out with him. She was going to be sad when Jane’s lab opened and she had to go back to regular work. 

* * *

  
  


“You need little bursts of happiness, Brock,” Darcy said, “it’s science.” She was pushing him back to his hospital room in a wheelchair after another difficult physical therapy session.

“Real science or something you read on Twitter?” Brock asked.

“Real science,” Darcy insisted.

“Real science talks about googly eyes and bubbles?” Brock asked.

“Yes,” Darcy said, nodding. He sighed. “What?” she said.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly. She stopped pushing his chair. 

“You don’t remember, do you?” Darcy said. She peered down at him. He looked up, expression still. Darcy took a deep breath. “After the Convergence, I had a panic attack near one of the SHIELD tents. Jane and Ian were off doing science stuff. You brought me coffee,” she told him in a soft voice.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I remember that. No big thing.”

“It helped,” Darcy said. “The coffee and the name of a SHIELD therapist and that weird British chocolate bar,” she said, smiling. He smiled back slowly.

“It helped,” he said.

“Yup,” Darcy said. “You helped me.”

“I’m a comforting guy,” Brock announced cheerfully.

“You are,” she said. “But I don’t understand why you won’t name the plant,” she said, returning to the cactus.

“I’ll agree to the board games,” he bargained. She’d been trying to get him to agree to one. Maybe Candyland. Or Ouija.

“Goody,” Darcy said. “I have a bag in your room.”

“How much weird stuff do you carry around with you?” he asked sarcastically.

“Whose session was just recently improved by my Yo-Yo?” Darcy sassed. He laughed. “Wait until you see, mister.”

“Candyland?” Brock said, ten minutes later. He raised a singed eyebrow. 

“Or we’ve got Ouija and Operation,” she said.

“I’m not into Operation,” he said.

“Ooooh, nope. Veto!” Darcy said, putting it behind her. Three rounds of games, one spirit guide appeal, and a nap later, Darcy was trying to convince Brock to try the Cherry Garcia ice cream that she’d bought while he was sleeping. “Try it, it’s really good,” she offered, waving the spoon in front of his nose. She thought he needed a change from hospital food, just for his moods. And he’d been good at therapy. Brock made a face.

“I don’t like cherry stuff,” he said, grimacing.

“No?” she said, voice turning wicked. 

“My nonna liked those nasty cherry chocolates--are you making a dirty joke?” he said.

“Maybe,” Darcy said. He grinned.

“Bad girl,” he said. “You’re shameless.”

“Uh-huh,” Darcy said proudly. “Also, Maria’s offering to pay me to live with you when you’re released in a few days.”

“What?” Brock said.

“I told her yes,” Darcy said. “Here, eat the ice cream, it’s melting.”

“We’re living together?” Brock said. She nodded. He looked horrified.

“Unless you want to call Angela and--” Darcy began.

“No,” he said quickly. “When can you move in? Soon?”

“Soon?” Darcy asked, surprised.

“If they’d let me out of here,” he said, sounding dejected. He looked around at the room with a grim expression and then finally ate the ice cream. 

“I’ll ask,” Darcy said. It was before five. Maybe Maria could place some calls, see how soon it would be safe to take Brock home. His serum enhancements meant he was going to be badly scarred, but hadn’t needed skin grafts. He wasn’t even oozing anymore; he had gone from raw-skinned and seeping to closed wounds and discolored, purplish-red skin within a week or two. Still, he was supposed to treat his damaged skin carefully and rest a lot. She doubted he could be left to his own devices safely.

"S'okay," he muttered. "But it's not pistachio."

"Okay," Darcy said, grinning. She paused. “You’re okay with SHIELD paying me, right? I can turn down the money, it’s just Maria wrote a big number on a Post-It...”

”Lewis,” he cut in, “you should get paid. I’m getting paid. These are work injuries.”

”Oh,” Darcy said. “I just wanted you to be okay with it.” He shook his head.

”You’re the girl who loans her sketchy friends money, right?” Brock said.

”Sometimes I’m the sketchy friend,” Darcy said.

”Uh-huh.”

”I have seen aliens with my own two eyes,” she cracked.


	4. Living Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“Now that we’re living together, “ Brock said a few days later, “I think we need to talk about your problem.”

“My problem?” Darcy said, looking up in surprise.

“You got a mug problem, sweetheart,” he said. He was surveying her mug collection as they unpacked Darcy’s stuff. He’d been released from the hospital this morning.

“It’s only a problem if the coffee mugs interrupt your daily living,” Darcy said. He grinned.

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. He picked up a mug. “Llamas?”

“I love them,” Darcy said happily. Mugs had been one of her practical "splurges" during the years of interning with Jane. They were useful, not frivolous. Or so she told herself. She looked at Brock in his wheelchair. She had insisted they get him one temporarily and he hadn’t fought her on it. Did he have something like her mugs--a small thing that made him happy? She needed to find out.

“What?” he said.

“Wait until you find out about my popcorn problem,” she said.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’ve agreed to this,” Ian told Darcy over the phone. She’d left Brock with one of his SHIELD guys while she got more of her things. She was putting her shampoo in a box and craned her shoulder to bring the phone closer to her ear. Ian huffed. She could practically hear that he was frowning.

“It’s only for a few weeks,” Darcy said. “Jane’s got to wait for her new equipment to come in. Agent Rumlow is a good guy,” she said. “And Maria’s worried he’ll do too much if he’s left alone.”

“He’s badly burned, yeah?” Ian asked.

“Yes,” Darcy said, feeling unaccountably insulted.”So?”

“Wouldn’t a nurse be more appropriate?” Ian said. Darcy merely shrugged, said something noncommittal, and kept putting her bathroom stuff in the box.

“I’ll be back home soon,” she told Ian before she hung up. She felt oddly irritated that he questioned her skills. She had taken care of Jane when the scientist had sprained her ankle. Of course she could help Brock. He'd get depressed if they stuck him in a skilled nursing facility for rehab. And if he went home to New York, he and Angela would probably bicker more. Everyone knew that people behaved better for non-family members. It was a total thing. 

* * *

“Popcorn, huh?” Brock asked her, once Darcy was back at his place and had unpacked. She was sleeping in his spare bedroom. Darcy looked over her shoulder as she pressed the microwave buttons. She smiled at him. He was watching her from the couch, expression unreadable. The popcorn's _rat-tat-tat_ of bursting kernels began to sound behind her.

“Popcorn _and_ candy, Commander,” she said. “Possibly followed by bubbles.” She needed to review his wound care instructions and figure out what needed to be done. That might entail bribery. She wanted him to feel calm. She was a little nervous, too. She hadn't done burn care before. The reality of it was setting in and she missed her bravado from her call with Ian.

“Oh God, not bubbles,” he said, putting one burned hand over his face. “I gotta go to therapy and then you come at me with bubbles?” 

“Please you love bubbles, I’ve seen your face,” Darcy said. Darcy had snuck some into PT once and been slightly scolded by a therapist. She thought he secretly loved all her stuff. She had caught him playing with her Yo-Yo again. “Besides, you have a balcony,” Darcy said. "I'm kind of jelly. I'd love one."

"I do have a balcony," he said, looking odd. Was he giving in, she wondered? He looked at her. "Okay," he said. 

They sat outside in the night air. “You go first,” she told him. He looked at her skeptically. “I’m eating the popcorn!” she said. 

“Fine,” he grumbled. She was fairly sure he was mostly play-acting. His faces were exaggerated. Funny as hell. He took the container from her with a comical huff. Darcy watched as he raised the bubble wand to his burned lips and blew. The bubbles rose gently in the breeze.

“Woooo!” Darcy said. “You did it!”

“Please,” Brock said. But she noticed he kept blowing bubbles. They drifted over the balcony’s railing. It was warm out. A calm night, she thought, even if the stars were hard to see. The street lamps glowed orange against the black sky. Darcy could hear the voices of people moving in and out of the restaurant across the street. The sounds of traffic and music. If she turned her head and leaned out, she could look all the way down the street. Instead, she kept looking at him. Carefully. “You gonna share that?” he said suddenly, tilting his head at her.

“Of course,” Darcy said. “Switch?” She held her hand out for the bubbles.

“Lemme do one more,” Brock said. "I’m trying to see how far they’ll go before they break.” He raised his burned chin and blew a smooth round of perfect, iridescent bubbles. They floated over the railing and out over the street. She watched until each one disappeared. He smiled at her. “See if you can beat that,” he teased.

“Oh, I can,” Darcy said. He laughed. She was glad you couldn’t see the wreckage of the Triskelion from his building. They sat for a long time in the dark. She waited until he asked if she wanted to go in. "Whenever you're ready," she told him. He looked at her ambiguously. "What is it?" Darcy felt suddenly nervous. He grinned slowly.

"We're all out of bubbles," he said.

"I'll have to get more," Darcy said. "I'll put it on my list." He looked over her shoulder.

"Confetti?" he said.

"That's a surprise," she said, hiding her phone. 

"What are you plotting, Lewis?" Brock asked. She refused to tell him. She'd had an idea late this afternoon. He shook his head and looked at the skyline. 

“Okay, my—technically your—instructions say that you shouldn’t take baths, but showers are fine,” Darcy said, after they'd come inside and she’d given him some time to rest. She flipped the page. There was a packet. It wasn't that scary. “And I got you that lotion the doctors’ recommended because we need to keep your skin well-hydrated—”

“Hydrated? That feels ironic,” he said. He smirked.

“Did you just make a HYDRA pun?” she said. He gave her a mock-horrified look. 

“No, not me,” he said. It made her laugh. Then Brock wagged his eyebrows at her and made several ridiculous faces. “Stop!” Darcy said, curled up with laughter. “Stop!” 

“Ow,” he said abruptly.

“What?” she said.

“I stretched my damn skin,” he murmured, rubbing his face. She lost it then. For some reason, she’d caught the giggles. It was late. She really needed to get this sorted out and not end up on the couch in a fetal position, shaking with laughter. He smirked at her. “Lewis,” he said when she finally stopped giggling, “I’m a grown man. I read my instructions and oiled myself up with that lotion like a serial killer while you were gone today.”

“Oh,” she said, sitting up. “Even your back?”

“Shit,” Brock said. He looked at her and sighed. "Bedroom?"

"W-what?" she said.

Darcy’s giggly mood evaporated abruptly. It was awkward to rub lotion on his scarred back as he lay on his bed, shirtless. She’d imagined doing this on the couch. Somewhere less intimate. But the couch was too narrow and she didn’t want to fall on him. She was trying to be extremely careful. His skin was thinner now. It needed time to get stronger and he might bruise easily, her packet said. The instructions were very serious about peeling and scratching leading to infection, too. “You okay back there?” he cracked, when she went quiet. “You run out of giggles?”

“Yes!” Darcy said. “You’ve just got a lot more muscles than Ian.” Even under the burns, his muscles were firm. Her hands shook slightly. "A lot," she repeated.

“Well, yeah,” he said.

“Hmm?” Darcy said, concentrating on touching him as lightly as possible.

“His name is Ian,” Brock said dryly.

“There are some buff Ians,” she said reflexively—and then couldn’t think of a single one. 

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Um—” she began. “Nothing. What are some of your favorite things?” Darcy was trying to think of things she could take him to do, just to keep him amused.

“The gym,” he said. “Jumping out of planes, nothing I can do right now.” He sighed. _Shit,_ she thought. _Bad move, Darcy,_ she scolded herself. Dumb. She worked in silence, but it felt oppressive. Darcy decided she needed something. Music or sound. What could she play that wouldn’t feel strange? 

“Can I turn on my laptop?” Darcy asked.

“Sure,” Brock said. He watched, expression perplexed, as she turned on one of her favorite ambience videos, a snowy scene with a realistic soundtrack. It was set on a retro-looking train. She often turned it on at night to help herself sleep. The rhythmic rattle of the train, the soft flakes of snow falling outside, the train’s periodic stops. She liked the ones with rainy cafe scenes, too. “Trains?” he said, evidently still curious, as the train moved through a tunnel and the windows darkened.

“I got very into these after London,” she admitted. “People use them to sleep, just to be soothing. This one reminds me of being in an Agatha Christie novel or something.” Darcy glanced at the scene for a second. “There’s a real luxury train from Paris to Venice that I want to go on,” she added. “I’m trying to convince Ian that it would be a fun honeymoon. One day. Maybe.” The money was an issue. Her fingers massaged his shoulders gently. Brock glanced back at her, frowning.

“Train bed on your honeymoon?” he asked.

“Ian,” Darcy said slowly, “would like to go on an extended camping trip. Sleeping in a tent in the woods.”

“Ohh,” Brock drawled out. “Train bed sounds pretty good, huh?”

“Yep,” she said, scrunching her nose. The train clattered. He watched the screen. The train stopped at a station for a few minutes, then started again. Darcy kept working, smoothing cream over his shoulders and the backs of his arms. She wondered if he could have a lotion warmer? She was about to say something when she realized he’d closed his eyes and started to snore gently. The onscreen train was rounding a tree-lined curve. Snow fell in fat flakes.

Darcy left her laptop running next to him on the bed and covered him with a blanket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite Snowy Train Ambience video right now--total "Orient Express" vibes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bNORR_GjHk&list=PLvTaXqHhgyZ44DqnINvkB2Epkn7vW9LYz&index=4
> 
> Here is a real fact about me: I have trouble with the whole spelling of ambient/ambience.
> 
> Also, they have reconstructed the Paris-Venice part of the Orient Express with restored vintage train cars: https://www.belmond.com/trains/europe/venice-simplon-orient-express/


	5. Outside People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“What’s going on in here?” Brock asked.

“Hmmmpf?” Darcy was half-asleep and blindly trying to silence her alarm without opening her eyes when she heard him open the bedroom door.

“You want coffee?” he said.

“Yes,” Darcy said, sinking back onto her pillow. “Why are you awake alone?” She sat up abruptly. “What if you fell—?”

“And you were unconscious?” he finished. She could hear his voice moving towards the kitchen. “I’m in the chair,” he called out. She got up, yawning, and stumbled out to the living room. He was sitting in the wheelchair as he made coffee, thankfully.

“Be careful,” Darcy said. “Don’t spill.”

“Or I’ll get burned?” Brock joked. Darcy cringed and he actually laughed at her. He grinned. “Sit down. What are we doing today?” he asked.

“Did you want to do something in particular?” Darcy asked. He didn’t have physical therapy today. “A movie marathon?” she suggested. He sighed and passed her one of her mugs.

“Lewis, I am fucking sick of lying around watching movies. We did that in the damn hospital. Can’t we go outside?” he complained.

“God, I hated kids like you in high school,” Darcy said, curling her lips in mock-distaste. “You’re one of those outside people.” He snorted.

“What are you, an indoor cat?” Brock said.

“Yes,” Darcy said, slurping her coffee obnoxiously. 

“What does the fiancé say about that?” he murmured, half under his breath. He’d turned his chair towards the counter. “You want some of this cereal you brought?” 

“Fruit Loops,” Darcy said, “but I’ll get it.” She stood up. “And yes, my being an inside person is a bone of contention in our relationship.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, seeming to watch her without seeing her. She made her cereal, but he insisted on making his own eggs. 

“Maybe we could try a park?” Darcy offered, as they ate. “But it’s cold out.”

“You could wear more clothes?” he said sarcastically, raising his eyebrows at her pajamas. She was wearing a joke nightshirt with coffee cups on it.

“Bite me,” Darcy sassed back. She might’ve felt self-conscious over her bare legs, but Sam Wilson had repeated gossip about Brock having a string of model-type professional girlfriends and she was definitely not leggy and glamorous. Or professional, really. He smirked at her. “But you need to wear layers,” she told him, more seriously. His skin was more sensitive than normal. He could feel cold or hot, the notes said. She wondered if he got hypothermia more easily?

“What was that? I thought I heard my mother’s voice?” Brock said, looking around. “You hear that?”

“You’re more sarcastic with me now that she’s gone,” Darcy said, almost wistful. “I miss guilty you. He got me a teddy bear.”

“You’ve done wound care and gone to PT now, you’re part of the family,” Brock told her. “No special treatment.” 

“I played myself,” Darcy said, chasing an errant Fruit Loop in her milk. He laughed.

* * *

“What are outside people?” Brock asked, as they went around the Smithsonian Castle. She’d bartered with him that they go outside, but somewhere with decent bathrooms. And places to sit. Maybe go in. It was chilly. She was all wrapped up in her scarf and hat. They’d had a little fight over him wearing gloves, but he’d agreed to a hat. She wondered if he felt self-conscious. He’d put on aviators. But the sun was bright, despite the cold temps. He could just not like the glare. The doctors had said glare might be difficult for his healing eyes.

“Hmm?” Darcy said, not following. “Can we slow down?” She was actually having to hustle to keep up with him in his wheelchair. He might be overdoing it, she thought. Darcy had stopped to snap some photos of the red Gothic castle. It looked like something out of a spooky movie.

“Yeah. You said ‘outside people’?” Brock repeated, slowing and doing air quotes. She leaned a little against the back of his chair.

“You know, those people who are always like, _can we sit outside?”_ Darcy mock-whined. He looked up at her curiously. “So, the whole class has to troop outside and sit in the freaking grass with the bugs while you talk about _Beowulf_ and then you get sunburned or you’re freezing and your mom bitches because you got grass stains on your nice outfit,” she grumbled.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“I hear you mocking me--hi,” she said to someone who spoke to them. She’d been eagle-eyed for anyone looking at him funny, but this woman smiled. She was wearing a printed scarf. “Is that a Storiarts scarf?” Darcy asked, recognizing the printed scarf design.

“Yes,” the woman said. 

“So pretty!” Darcy said.

“Thank you,” the woman said, passing them. Darcy realized Brock was looking at her.

“What?” she said.

“You recognized a scarf?” he said.

“Only because I’m jelly,” Darcy confessed. “I’ve always wanted one. They have parts of famous books printed on them, but they’re a little pricey.”

“Like an Hermès or something?” he said, frowning.

“God, no. Who do you think I am, Oprah?” Darcy said, starting to giggle. “An Hermès? No way. These are like fifty bucks. Also, I’m not that fancy.”

“Oh,” he said. 

“You’ve seen my clothes,” she said, still laughing. “Nobody pairs a silk scarf with their favorite leggings with the tiny knee hole they hope nobody notices.”

“Why don’t you have one if they’re only fifty bucks?” Brock said, expression confused.

“Um, hello, I didn’t make any money, I was Jane’s intern. We lived at an old car dealership and her mom’s house,” Darcy said. “Fifty bucks is a lot when you’re stretching grant income to feed three people. If Jane’s mom hadn’t put us on her family plan, I’d probably still have my flip phone.”

“But you’ve got money now,” he pointed out. “You could afford that.” He frowned. “Or I’ll have a talk with Maria--” he muttered.

“You’re right,” Darcy admitted, thinking. She was thinking so hard, she stopped walking. She _could_ afford that. She had two jobs now, technically, and got a paycheck with two actual columns of income. Happy little dollar signs and a four-digit number. “Whoa.” 

“What?” he said. 

“Don’t talk to Maria,” Darcy said.

“What’s wrong?” Brock said.

“I can buy a scarf!” she said. She was so happy, she leaned down and kissed him impulsively on the side of his cheek. She got his battered ear a little. “Thank you!” Darcy said. She realized he was staring at her. “I just realized that I can give myself an allowance for stuff like that every month,” she told him. “I can buy a fancy scarf or try a new kind of coffee and not worry that’ll feel lost money regret if I don’t like it.”

“Yeah?” he said. Nodding, he began to push the chair again.

“There’s a whole school of research that says having a salary that gets you out of poverty and financial insecurity is a genuine happiness producer,” she told him.

“No shit,” he said dryly. She ignored his sarcasm.

“The funny thing about it, is that the happiness boosts stop around seventy thousand dollars,” Darcy explained. “Once you’re able to have a stable place to live and access to healthcare and transportation in most places--”

“Seriously?” Brock said, giving her a skeptical look. She nodded firmly.

“Being super rich doesn’t make you super happy. There is a strong possibility that you, my friend, are just as happy as a tech billionaire,” she said. “Or just as capable of being happy. I forget if they say it’s half environment, half personality. Whatever it is, getting a Lexus for Christmas is not as happiness inducing as having a car that runs in general instead of having to catch the bus.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Brock said. 

“Nope,” she said. “Bus schedules in this country are stressful.” She looked around. “Did you want to go into any of the museums?” she asked.

“A tech billionaire?” he repeated.

“Yep,” she said. “Besides, you’ve got way better hair than any of those dudes. Oh my God, the bowl-cut bangs alone.” She patted his hat. Abruptly, he started to laugh. “What?” she said. “I’m serious!”

“You are the strangest woman,” he said.

“Yes,” Darcy agreed. “But we’re going to the Museum of the American Indian. It looks cool and I’ve never been and my ass is freezing.”

  
  


* * *

“Which ones are you looking at?” Brock asked her. Darcy looked up from browsing scarves on her laptop. She was sprawled on his bed, eating popcorn. They’d had dinner and done another round of skincare, this time less nervously. She was tired and hadn’t minded the bed. Her feet hurt a little.

“Um, the Jane Austens, _The Night Circus,_ ohhhh, they’ve got Nancy Drew scarves!” she said excitedly. “I loved those as a kid.” Brock grinned at her.

“So, you’re over your protest of the museum?” he asked. They had gone to the museum, only to find it had closed early. She had convinced Brock to pick up food and relax at home. Mostly by pretending to want to stage a two-person protest on the Mall.

“I am not mad at the museum, I am mad at old white senators who don’t provide appropriate budgets for the humanities and sciences,” Darcy said. “I am protesting the relevant committee, I just need to look it up. And then write a mean letter. Jane will help—” Darcy said. Brock started to laugh. Just then, her phone rang. It was Ian. She picked up. “Hey, babe,” she said brightly. “How are you?”

“Awful,” he said, then launched into a long, detailed story about a failed experiment, a lost document, and the general inequities of his day. Someone hadn’t done something right, he hadn’t eaten yet, and he sounded tired and clipped. She listened and mouthed _sorry_ at Brock, it went on so long. He gestured dismissively and looked at her laptop screen. She thought Brock might be a little nosy.

“Why don’t you stop and eat?” Darcy said to Ian, intending it to be sympathetic.

“If I leave, someone will muck something up,” Ian snapped. Darcy tried not to sigh too audibly. Ian had a thing about not delegating. It could be difficult. He was somewhat worse than Jane about it, actually. 

“Oh,” Darcy said. A neutral response was sometimes the best course of action. On the other side of the bed, Brock looked at her, frowning.

“What are you doing?” Ian asked.

“Looking at book scarves, trying to pick one,” she began, attempting to explain her realization about having a genuine salary. She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “So, you know how I’ve always loved those book-themed scarves, right? Brock pointed out that I can actually afford one now. I was trying to decide between _Anne of Green Gables--_ ” Darcy said, before he cut her off abruptly.

“I have to go. I have challenging decisions to make,” Ian said. Even his _love you_ sounded judgy.

“Well, bye. Love you, too,” Darcy said, as the phone bonked. “And maybe have a Snickers!” she muttered. She realized Brock was staring.

“Did he just hang up?” he said. “On you?” He actually sounded a little mad about it. Darcy rolled her eyes.

“It’s not a big deal. He does that all the time. He has no patience for other people’s stories,” she confessed. “I mean, he just walks away sometimes, when I’m asking his _opinion_. Who does that?” She shook her head and went back to the screen. “Frankenstein, Jay Gatsby, or Anne Shirley? This is too many choices, Brock Rumlow.” She liked using his full name to be silly. “I’m going to sit here and just enjoy thinking about it, even if Ian doesn't care,” she said. “I can afford a scarf and a new bottle of nail polish in the same month. I'm rich! I feel like Norma Desmond. You want more popcorn?”

“Who?” Brock asked, as she got up.

“The old movie star in _Sunset Boulevard?_ The one who says ‘I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille?’ There’s a part where she tells her boyfriend not to worry about money because she’s rich,” Darcy explained.

“What?” he said. 

“We’re going to have to watch that movie,” Darcy said. “I’m not explaining it as good as it is. It’s a wild movie.”

Fifteen minutes later, she had found it on one of his streaming services. “I don’t know why I have this, I never watch TV,” Brock said, next to her on the bed. They started _Sunset Boulevard._

“Fit people always say that,” Darcy told him. “It’s a humblebrag.”

“I am not doing that,” he began, as the movie’s credits began. There was a shot of the gutter emblazoned with the street name.

“Shhhh,” she said, munching on popcorn. She was shocked he was letting her eat in his bed. He huffed. Onscreen, the male lead was meeting Norma Desmond.

“Old movies are weird,” he muttered. “This woman is crazy.”

“Yup,” Darcy said, feeling strangely happy. It was fun to wander around DC with him or glance at his face watching the screen. She didn’t mean to lean against his shoulder. It had been a weird reflex, she was so comfortable. “Shit, sorry! Did I hurt you?” she asked, worried she’d torn his skin. She’d scrambled up abruptly.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m not gonna break. Get back here.” He waved her over.

“You have to tell me if I hurt you,” Darcy said, resting her head close to, but not on, his shoulder.

“Now you’re just stealing my pillow,” he said. She laughed and pretended to throw popcorn at him. He frowned. “Did you just fake-throw at me?” Brock said. “Like I’m a puppy?” He started to laugh.

“Maybe,” Darcy said. They watched the movie for awhile. It was more weird than she remembered. She looked at him. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he said.

“Being fun,” Darcy said. “You’re a fun person for someone who probably knows a hundred ways to kill me and yet chooses not to.”

“You’re insane,” he told her, but Darcy could tell he was pleased.

She must’ve drifted off sometime after Norma Desmond vowed to show everyone with her big movie comeback.

* * *

His phone rang right after the end credits. Darcy had fallen asleep. He recognized the name on his phone screen. “Hey, Fal,” Brock said quietly, not wanting to wake the woman next to him. Darcy had been quietly wheezing.

“Hiiiiii,” his sister trilled. “How bored are you right now?”

“Shhh,” he said. “Darcy’s asleep. I’m doing”--he had to think about it--”okay?”

“Whaddya mean, she’s asleep?” Fallon said. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” he said. “We were watching a movie and she fell asleep.”

“Ma says she’s pretty,” Fallon said. “Like, really pretty.”

“She’s engaged,” Brock said. He tried to sound neutral about it.

“Oh,” Fallon said. 

“The guy’s an asshole, though,” he said, peering over to make sure Darcy was still asleep and hadn’t heard him. “He fucking hung up on her today.”

“Were they fighting?” Fallon wondered.

“No, she was just telling him about her day,” Brock said, shaking his head. “Didn’t interest him, so he hung up. Like I said, he’s an asshole. I’ve noticed he never lets her talk when they’re on the phone,” he said, voice quiet, “it’s all about him, what he’s doing, she never gets a word in.” 

“Sounds typical,” Fallon said. 

“Huh?” he said.

“You really have no idea how many guys are like that, do you?” his sister said. Her voice changed. “I’m so glad I met Mike, I literally could not go on one more date where some guy monologues at me,” she said. “And that’s only if they want to fuck you, if you they don’t, you’re invisible--”

“Don’t let your children hear that,” Brock said lightly. She snorted.

“Kids hear everything,” Fallon said. She spoke abruptly. “Do you like her? Ma likes her?”

“She’s engaged,” Brock repeated, feeling hassled. He knew his mother was hoping something would happen; he was fairly sure Angela had orchestrated the whole business. “And she’s not leaving him for me. I look like a goddamn Halloween mask, Fal.”

“Pffhht, I’m sure you’re still cute,” his sister said airily.

“Bullshit,” he muttered. He was avoiding mirrors and hiding behind his sunglasses.

“If you want her to like you, just be the opposite of the fiancé,” Fallon said. “Listen to her stories, let her tell the jokes, don’t just talk _at_ her.” 

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. “I let her talk. Why would you think I wouldn’t let her talk?” Fallon went on like he hadn’t spoken.

“And be nice about what she’s interested in, don’t just call it ‘chick stuff’ and make fun of it,” Fallon told him. “It’s so obnoxious when guys do that.” She sighed. 

“What?” Brock said.

“I had a thought,” Fallon said.

“Spit it out,” he said.

“Okay, just listen to me. Do you actually want to be her friend?” she said. “A real friend?”

“Yeah?” he said. 

“Even if she never leaves this guy or has sex with you?” his sister asked. Brock looked at Darcy sleeping.

“Yeah,” he said, more firmly. “Of course.”

“Well, prove it,” Fallon said. “Do all those things I told you without expecting to see her boobs, like an actual friend. That’s what friendship is, listening to someone’s problems without seeing them naked.”

“Jesus, Fal,” Brock said.

“Ma says she has great boobs,” Fal said. “Are they real?”

“Shut up,” Brock grumbled. He stretched out his feet. His legs were itchy. He couldn’t scratch. It made him feel bored and restless. The movement shifted Darcy’s laptop a little. He looked at the screen. She’d left it open to the scarf company. He thought Ian’s dismissal had dampened her mood slightly, because she’d said something about deciding later. “No sex, huh?” Brock said to his sister.

“Yes,” Fallon said. “Zero. None.”

“But I can support her interests?” he said, pressing the keys to scroll through the website. There was a sales code at the top of the screen, he noticed.

“Sure,” Fallon said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my favorite Norma Desmond line:


	6. A Slight Hiccup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing! Thanks for all your comments and kudos on this one.

“Mmmm,” Darcy said, wiggling against his body. He was snoring. It was a nice sound. She felt warm. More than warm. She was toasty. Had Ian brought more blankets to bed, she thought dimly? Darcy opened her eyes. Ian was in Norway. Not this bed. She peered over her shoulder. Brock Rumlow was snoring on the pillow next to her. “Shit. Shit,” Darcy said, almost bolting upright. She couldn’t: his arm was slung over her. It was a heavy arm. She would need to slide out, she thought desperately. Darcy tried to make herself as small as possible. Then she moved her feet towards the opposite side of the bed. Planting her heels into the sheets, she tried to go sideways.

“Where you going, sweetheart?” Brock asked suddenly. Darcy almost jumped in surprise.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” she whispered. 

“It’s five,” he said, “go back to sleep.”

“I gotta pee,” Darcy said, climbing out. She heard him call out as she hurried to the bathroom.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Brock said.

“Okay!” she said. When she came out, he was watching her. “What’s wrong?”

“C’mere, I want to talk to you about this book you left out. It’s cold.” He patted the bed. Darcy realized he’d picked up one of her happiness books. She had mentioned it in the hospital.

“Oh,” she said, climbing into bed. He actually wanted to talk about it? She felt startled. 

“I was thinking about stuff we could do,” Brock said. “Stuff I like.”

“Yeah?” Darcy said. 

“I never think about this stuff, I work too much,” he told her. Darcy nodded. “You ever watched a fight?” he asked.

“I have watched Jane take a swing at somebody,” Darcy said. He laughed. “But yeah. Let’s do that.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” 

“I’m not hurting you, right?” Darcy asked, eyeing his arm anxiously. He shook his head.

“No. What do you like?” Brock said. Darcy thought for a second, feeling weird panic. It wasn’t like she needed to impress him, she scolded herself. She reeled off the first things that came to mind.

“Ummm, baking cupcakes, Billie Holiday and Peggy Lee, lipstick—I don’t know,” she said. “It’s _really_ early in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“You like me being here?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “You snore in a fun way.”

“Bite me,” Darcy sassed, feeling weird relief.

“It reminds me of a little dog, like a pug,” he said, chuckling. She’d closed her eyes when he spoke again. “I might sleep better.”

“Yeah?” Darcy said. “Have you been having trouble?” She kept her voice neutral.

“Nobody sleeps well in hospitals,” Brock said.

“High creep factor,” Darcy murmured, tucking herself deeper under his arm. She felt him relax. "I could always move my mattress in here?" she offered. "I don't want to crowd you."

"Nah, this is fine," he said. "Plenty of room."

"I'll get you some melatonin, too."

"Mmm-hmm." He started to snore.

* * *

“Eight and a half!” Darcy said, holding up a sheet of paper with the number scrawled on it as Brock completed a PT exercise on a wobble board. She pretended to applaud. She was pretending lots of things today. She’d woken up cuddling him this morning. Darcy was pretending that was totally normal, too. Totally fine.

“Thank you,” he said, then wobbled--unintentionally. “Fuck.” He grabbed the balance bar next to him. “Shit.” An older woman using the stationary elliptical across the room frowned at him. “Sorry,” Brock said. “Ma’am.” She looked less than mollified.

“You sounded like Cap just then,” Darcy said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“Uh-huh,” he said dryly. “Hero of the moment at work, that’s me.”

“You’re heroic,” Darcy insisted. His expression grew distant. She frowned as she watched him shift his weight on the wobble board, following the therapist’s instructions. It was obvious that he was worried about his reputation at work. Darcy knew he’d avoided going to SHIELD’s temporary offices, even when Rollins asked him to come by. She’d told him that she’d take him and he’d gotten a little snappy with her, for possibly the first time. “Brock?” she said.

“Hmm?” he said.

“Where do you want to have lunch?” she asked. They always got lunch together after PT. She’d made it a rule, so he’d eat and rest. She kinda dragged it out, so he had to sit for longer than he normally would.

“You pick,” he said. 

“Stellina’s?” she offered. It was one of his favorites and she loved the pizzas. They had a cacio e pepe pizza that she’d sent Jane a long, borderline Julia Child email about. It was delicious.

“Sure,” he said.

“Can I invite somebody?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Brock said, one foot on the wobble board.

“Good, good,” the therapist told him. Darcy tapped out a message on her phone.

* * *

**World’s Okayest Assistant:** Would you like to have lunch with me & Brock today?

 **Man With A Plan:** Sure, Darce.

 **World’s Okayest Assistant:** I’ll send you the address.

* * *

They’d just sat down on the patio at Stellina’s when Steve arrived. “Hi, folks,” he said, smiling.

“Cap,” Brock said, shaking the hand that Steve offered. 

“I invited Steve for lunch,” Darcy said. “Steve, you’ve got to try the pizza.”

“Will do,” he said, sitting down. Darcy smiled at Brock. He gave her a brief, flickering smile back. The mood at the table was more tense than Darcy expected. So, she tried harder, chatting about the food, DC landmarks, and things she wanted to see. Steve kept nodding and smiling politely, occasionally chiming in with advice about places to visit. Brock was quieter. She hoped it was only fatigue from his PT. Still, the outdoor lunch accomplished what Darcy had intended: several SHIELD employees walked by, saw Steve, and came over to greet him, seeing Brock in the process. Most of them looked only vaguely startled. And Steve and Brock were seen socializing together. Darcy thought that might be enough to quash any lingering rumors about Brock being HYDRA. 

“Hey,” Darcy said, “I want to look at these meal kits they have, they were sold out of one the last time we were here, Brock.” She stood and glanced at Steve. “Don’t let him run off without me, even if he says I drive him crazy,” she said.

“You don’t drive me crazy,” Brock said. 

“I got him to watch _Sunset Boulevard_ last night,” Darcy said. Steve looked at her blankly. “Oh, wait, it’s fifties, you might not have seen it, sorry,” she said.

“In between my times,” he joked. 

“My bad,” Darcy said, “be right back.” She waved a little before she walked inside the restaurant.

* * *

“So?” Brock said, looking at Rogers. “Why are you here, Cap?” Steve’s smile had fallen away as soon as Darcy departed. Brock had been waiting for this moment for weeks. Wondering how it would happen. Dreading it. 

“I wanted to ask you about him--about Bucky,” Steve said slowly. “What do you know about Bucky?”

“Not much,” Brock admitted. He didn’t have many answers. There were no answers that would make Cap happy, either, he knew. He’d been turning it over in his mind when he couldn’t sleep. He was lucky Coulson had his notes. There were gaps in his memory now. “He was Pierce’s project and Pierce didn’t like to share information about the Asset--”

“Don’t call him that,” Steve said sharply, nostrils flaring. His voice had gone aggressive.

“I’m just telling you what I know,” Brock said, feeling his fingers curl in his lap. “Which is that he went through what they call mindwiping. Severe neurological and physical trauma, Cap. Decades of it. I didn’t even know who he really was, I thought he was a captured Soviet Russian from the Cold War called Yasha.” 

“That’s it?” Steve said. His expression was dubious.

“Romanoff has the most detailed files from the info dump, ask her,” Brock said, feeling defensive. “She knows more than I ever did. I sent my notes to Coulson, he’ll let you have them, you should fucking know that.” He gestured with his burned hands. “I’m being goddamned transparent here, don’t look at me like that.”

“I don’t believe you,” Steve said stubbornly. “You’re lying. You don’t deserve--”

“Go fuck yourself, Cap,” Brock said, angry now. “I’ll pay for your goddamned lunch, just leave.” Steve stood up abruptly and turned around. Brock thought he was storming off and threw his napkin down. He looked down at his plate with a grimace. He had no appetite. If Rogers objected to his returning to work, he was doomed. He’d lost everything. His whole life…

“There’s got to be something--the smallest thing, anything?” a voice said suddenly. Steve had come back to the table. He looked at Brock. His expression was half-stubborn, half-heartbroken. Brock sighed. The man looked like he wanted to come out of his skin. Ironic, Brock thought. He was the one coming out of his skin, not by choice. “Anything you know,” Steve said, in a low voice.

“He remembered you,” Brock said. “A little. Pierce--Pierce pushed that out of him. He’s gonna have memory loss, God knows what else--”

“But he remembered me?” Steve said, voice changing.

“He remembered that he’d known you,” Brock said, more carefully. 

“I’m looking for him,” Steve said, as if he expected Brock to object. 

“You’re probably the best person for it,” Brock said. He looked off into the distance and lowered his voice. “There were words. Signals. I don’t know them, but Pierce mentioned it once. You need to find those words, Cap. He could take down entire STRIKE units if you don’t know those words.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Steve said mulishly.

“Cap, he probably already has,” Brock said, voice blunt. “Hundreds of innocent people. And he won’t even remember it all.” He looked at his burned hands. “I fucking hope that he doesn’t.” 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, talking about him,” Steve said. “He didn’t have a choice. You went in with your eyes open--”

“I went in to know,” Brock said. “I had to know what was going on in my agency.”

  
  


* * *

“Where’s Steve?” Darcy said to Brock, returning to the table with several bags. Captain America was nowhere to be seen. Their food was all boxed and he’d paid the bill.

“He had to go,” Brock told her. “You ready?”

“Sure,” she said. He pushed his wheelchair towards the sidewalk, leaving her to hurry behind him, bags clanking. “I kinda went wild in there. I got you a lasagna, something called a box of happiness--which is three kinds of pasta, these are my people--and a cannoli kit. Having spending money is making me irresponsible. I thought we could have a little party?” Darcy said.

“Us and who else?” he said, voice irritated. He must be tired, she thought.

“Just the two of us,” Darcy said. “I almost impulse bought some liquor called Amaro, but then I remembered you shouldn’t have liquor. What is that?”

“It’s grandpa liquor,” he said. “Bitters.” He sounded odd. He’d almost spit out the words. 

“Okay,” Darcy said, loading her bags into the trunk of the car as he transferred out of his wheelchair and awkwardly shoved it in the backseat, swearing under his breath. “I’ve got one errand,” she said, when she climbed into the driver’s seat. He made a sound of acknowledgement from the passenger side. “I know you’re tired, it’ll just be a little thing,” she said. She was picking up confetti and balloons from Target. She felt bad that she hadn’t thought to give him a welcome home party as a surprise when he’d been released from the hospital. So, she was doing it this week: the food from Stellina’s, decorations, even ginger ale and fruit juice to sub in for boozy punch, since he wasn’t supposed to drink.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Put the seat back, if you want,” she told Brock. He was half-turned away from her. 

“Yeah,” he repeated, looking at traffic. They drove in silence. When she pulled up in front of the store, she got out her phone to check in. 

“I’m doing curbside, but if you want something?” Darcy offered.

“Oh, I think you’ve done enough today,” he said.

“What?” Darcy asked.

“Why the hell would you invite Cap to lunch?” Brock asked, voice rising. “What kind of fucking ambush was that, Lewis?”

“W-what?” Darcy stuttered.

“He wanted to shake me down about Barnes, which I was expecting,” Brock said, voice bitter, “but I didn’t expect it to happen because you invited him.” 

“Steve did what?” Darcy said, not understanding. Brock shook his head. “I thought he could help you, you work toget--”

“Doesn’t matter what you thought. Pierce was running his childhood friend as a HYDRA asset,” he said bitterly. Darcy stared. “So, Cap thinks I’m lying about it and doesn’t want me back at SHIELD. And golden boy always gets his way, no matter what it costs the agency.” He smacked the car door and she jumped, startled. “Goddamn it,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face. He pulled his hand back abruptly. She realized his palm was bleeding. He’d split the skin a fraction.

“Brock,” she began, reaching for him. “You’re hurt.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that, don’t fucking touch me. You might’ve accelerated the end of my career today.” Darcy didn’t know what to do. She sat there, frozen. He started to chuckle. It was a raw, pained sound. “You know, Rollins told me Cap wanted all of SHIELD destroyed? All of it, everything good we ever did, everything I was trying to save, untangle from Pierce, he just thought he could toss it all away. Burn it down. Because it wasn’t _pure_ enough.” He stopped staring at his bleeding palm and wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. “You and Foster, you’re like sisters, you don’t know what it’s like,” he said, inhaling roughly. “The rest of us waking up to being disposable because they dug him up. The job, it was a part of me, the best thing I’ve ever ever done. But for Rogers it was--it was just cleaning up Fury’s mess.” His voice was raw. Abruptly, there was a knock on Darcy’s window. She jumped. It was an employee with her bag. She rolled the window down. 

“Lewis?” the woman said.

“Yes,” Darcy said.

“Sign here,” the employee said.

“Thank you,” she said, trying not to burst into tears. She took the bag and rolled the window back up. There was a tense silence in the car. “I just thought I was helping,” Darcy said. “I thought he could help you back at work, when you’re ready.” She heard her voice crack and felt the tears start. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Brock,” Darcy said. He was silently looking ahead. “If you want me to find someone else to stay with you,” she said, “I’ll find s-somebody.” She started to sob in earnest then. “I never--never meant to hurt you,” she said. She’d covered her face with her hands when she felt him touch her. He rubbed her shoulders.

“I know,” he said. “It’s okay, don’t cry. I’m sorry I yelled, okay? I fucked up.” He was looking at her, she realized, when she opened her eyes. “I fucked up.”

“No,” Darcy said, sniffling and shaking her head. “I fucked up. I had no idea--” She stopped talking when he cupped her face. Darcy was startled. 

“I’m out of line tonight,” he said, voice firm. “You understand? You were trying to do something good for me,” Brock said, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Darcy stared at him. He leaned in slightly. “You’re always trying make my shit better. I know that. I’m sorry. I never should have yelled at you. ”

“Okay,” she said, hugging him. They held onto each other for a long moment. She listened to him breathing.

“Don’t quit on me,” he said. “I know I can be a pain in the ass.” Darcy took a shaky breath and let her arms slip off his shoulders. 

“I know, but I like you,” she said, looking at him. He was looking directly into her eyes. “And I really want to get you a Band-Aid,” she whispered. He laughed, more softly. 

“Yeah?” he said. 

“Yeah,” Darcy said, pulling away. She stopped, then raked her fingers through his hair, pushing it back. Several strands had fallen against his forehead. He gazed at her. He had such beautiful eyes, she thought. “I messed up your hair,” she said. “I’ve got to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix everything for me,” he began. Behind them, someone honked. Brock looked over his shoulder. The car behind them was flashing its emergency lights and laying on the horn. “You wanna go home with your terrible asshole friend?” Brock asked quietly. “We’re holding up traffic.”

“Okay,” she said, feeling like the intensity of the moment had passed. “Let’s go.” She put the car in drive and was turning down a row of cars when she had another thought. Darcy turned the wheel and parked across three spaces at the edge of the lot with a jerk.

“What are you doing?” Brock said.

“Hold on,” Darcy said, stepping out of the car with her phone. She shut the door. 

* * *

Darcy was pacing back and forth in front of the car as she held the phone to her ear. Brock could hear her swearing. People crossing the lot with their shopping carts stopped and looked at her dubiously. “Steve, you asshole!” Darcy yelled. “I invited you to lunch so you’d be nice!” Her voice was slightly muffled by the windshield glass. She got back into the car suddenly. He could see she was breathing rapidly, huffing air. She started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. They got to a stoplight.

“You can tell me what he said,” Brock said quietly. 

“He didn’t say anything,” she said.

“Darcy.”

“I got his voicemail,” she said in a low voice. He started to laugh. 

“You got his voicemail,” he said, shaking his head. She nodded. “You gonna tell me what’s in the bag?” he asked at the next light. It was sitting on top of the cupholder, awkwardly bulky. He'd been tempted to look.

“Balloons,” Darcy said. He grinned at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stellina's is real: https://www.stellinapizzeria.com/menus/


	7. Touch and Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Things still felt fragile to Darcy when they got home. She went into the spare bedroom when they got back, thinking Brock probably needed space. It was his living room, after all. She was inventorying her party supplies—inwardly fretting about Brock’s work status—when he called her. “Darcy?”

“Yeah?” she said, looking around the bedroom door. He was sitting on the couch.

“Are you _hiding?”_ His expression was incredulous.

“I thought maybe you wanted some, um, space?” Darcy said. 

“Nope,” he said. “Be normal and talk to me about weird music and shit.”

“Weird music?” she said.

“I just listened to Billie Holiday and she sounds like she swallowed a fucking pigeon,” he said, smirking.

“You did not just say that to me,” Darcy said. “That—that is a crime.”

“The dollar I paid for that song was a crime,” he said, voice low.

“Sir. Sir. No,” she said, then turned around.

“What are you doing?” Brock called out.

“I’m packing! I can’t live under this roof,” she joked. She was actually getting her phone. “Just listen to one song for me?” she asked, returning. He grimaced.

“No.”

“Please, please?” Darcy said, poking out her lip. She made a sad face.

“Shit,” he said, sighing. “One song.”

“Okay,” Darcy said, sitting next to him. “I love this one. Well, I love most of them—”

“Uh-huh,” he said. He looked at her phone. “I’m A Fool to Want You?”

“It’s good!” she insisted. He listened for a moment.

“Eh,” he said and when she frowned, he burst out laughing. “It’s a good song,” Brock admitted. He looked canny. “One fight with me?” he said. “I DVR’d it.”

“Other than the one we just had?” Darcy said, feeling a little nervous.

“You think that was a fight?” he said, smirking. “You should see my family at Christmas, Lewis.”

“I bet they’re wonderful,” Darcy said, feeling an odd pang of Angela loyalty. He scoffed, pressing the remote. “Your mother texts me everyday to make sure you’re okay!” Darcy said. 

“Oh God,” he said. 

“She does! They're always nice texts. Hold on,” Darcy said. “I want to get us snacks and drinks.”

“We just ate,” he said.

“It feels wrong not to have something--and you’re healing,” she said, getting up.

“Popcorn isn’t health food, sweetheart!” he called after her.

“It has fiber,” she said back. “I make air popped!” She had an air popper that went into the microwave. She could hear him grousing out loud as she worked in the kitchen. “I don’t even make you have butter!” she yelled, grinning to herself, as she poured fizzy cranberry juice into two wine glasses. She carried the glasses into the living room as the popcorn pinged in the microwave.

"I can't believe Ma texts you everyday," Brock said.

“At least your mother likes me, Ian’s mother loathes me,” Darcy said. He looked a little surprised. “Here,” she told him. “I know you can’t drink right now, so next best thing. Something celebratory, since you’re working hard.” He seemed to find that funny.

“What is it?” he said, taking the glass. His scarred brow was furrowed. 

“Sparkling fruit juice,” Darcy told him. She set her glass down. “I’m going to get the popcorn. Don’t start the fight without me.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Brock said. He raised his voice, turning his head to look at her. “Ian’s mother doesn’t like you?” he said.

“Nope,” Darcy said, coming back with the bowl. “She loathes me. She always calls me Darvy and then says, ‘oh, excuse me, it’s such an unusual name,’ in this passive aggressive way.”

“Maybe she’s forgetful?” Brock offered. She noticed that he reached for the popcorn, though; it made her grin.

“She also always buys me ugly clothes in bigger sizes,” Darcy said. “Last time it was this massive green poncho. I put it on once--Ian burst out laughing and said I looked like a tent!”

“Ouch,” Brock said. She nodded.

"It was shiny," Darcy said, pulling a face. "A shiny tent."

“That bad, huh?” Brock asked, reaching for the popcorn again. He smirked. She pretended to elbow him.

“Yep. And with that, let’s watch a fight,” Darcy said. He pressed some buttons on the remote. The DVR’d fight began with analysis and sports commentators. “Okay,” Darcy said, “do I need to know anything first?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Take notes.” She laughed as he sipped his cranberry juice. He looked at her. “You can have a drink, you know. I don’t mind,” Brock told her. “If you want some wine, I think there’s some white wine in the fridge.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Darcy said. Onscreen, some Bob Costas-type guy in a blue suit was talking. “I really like not drinking, actually,” she admitted. “I wish it was easier to be a non-drinker…”

“Yeah?” he said, looking curious.

“Not drinking,” Darcy said. “It’s not that I have a problem with alcohol, it’s just that--have you ever been the only person not drinking in a group? Everyone treats you like a total fuddy-duddy. I just don’t want the headache in the morning, but I don’t mind Ian and everyone else having a beer or whatever,” she said. “I’m perfectly fine being the designated driver with my coffee or my hot chocolate.” He grinned at her.

“What?” Darcy said.

“I’m imagining you with a little hot chocolate mustache,” Brock teased. She shushed him playfully and tried to concentrate on the fight. The next time that she glanced over, he looked completely relaxed and happy. She felt immense relief.

* * *

That night, she typed out a message to Jane: _Bit of a scare today. I screwed up and invited Steve to lunch, thinking he and Brock were work buddies. They are not. Brock was really upset, but I apologized and I think we’re okay now. I hope so. We even watched a fight. How are the lights?_ To Darcy’s surprise, a texting bubble appeared almost immediately. 

_Thor says Steve can get stubborn. I’m sure everything is fine, you know Brock likes you. And obviously, you like him. The lights are great,_ Jane told her. She’d included a photo of a smiling Thor. Behind him, Darcy could faintly see streaks of color.

 _Phhfft,_ she replied, _this was bad. Muy, muy--_

There was a sudden thump and groan from the other room. “Brock?” Darcy called out. There was no response. She got up quickly. Had he fallen, she thought? He wasn’t in the living room. But she heard his voice. “Brock?” she repeated. When she opened his bedroom door, she realized he wasn’t awake. He was talking and moving in his sleep, limbs thrashing. “Oh shit,” Darcy said out loud, hurrying to his side. It took her a few moments to wake him from the nightmare. 

“Huh?” he said, breathing heavily. His eyes were wild and there was sweat visible on his forehead. 

“Hey, hey,” she said, pushing his hair back. It was damp.

“Darcy?” he said. "Fuck. I--" 

“You were having a bad dream,” she told him. “Let me get you water? If that’s okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he said. She got a glass from the kitchen and fished ice out of the freezer. She thought the door dispenser made alarmingly loud noises and didn’t want to startle him. She carried the glass back to the bedroom and found him sitting up.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why?”

“I fucking woke you up,” he said, sounding sad.

“Nope,” she said. “I was texting Jane. Are you okay? No bruises or bleeding?” He checked and nodded. “Good,” Darcy said. She sat on the edge of his bed. “She’s enjoying the Northern Lights.” He sipped water. She noticed a tremor in his hands. “We could, uh, get you something more than melatonin?” she offered. “To help you sleep.”

“I don’t like the idea of being drugged,” he said, grimacing. “Isn’t this bad enough?” He gestured to his face. 

“Hmmm,” she said.

“What?” Brock said.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t even notice that much anymore?” she said softly. He snorted.

“You need new glasses,” he told her. He set the glass down on his nightstand with a thunk.

“You want more?” Darcy offered. He shook his head. “Okay, I’ll let you get some rest,” she said, standing up. She’d almost reached the door when he spoke again. 

“Darcy?”

“Yeah?”

“You, uh, feel like staying with me until I fall asleep?” His voice was quiet.

“Of course,” she said to him. She climbed into the other side of the bed, phone forgotten. She studied him. He looked at her, moved his lips as if he wanted to say something, then paused. “What is it?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” Brock said. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

He fell asleep first and she crawled out of bed carefully, sneaking back to her room. On the bed, her phone was still open to a text from Jane. _I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,_ the scientist had written.

* * *

Darcy was sitting on the sidelines at physical therapy, listening to music, as Brock did exercises on one of the machines across the room. He was a little far away for her to speak to him, but whenever he looked her way, she’d hold up her “9 out 10” sign and wave. In her earbuds, Blossom Dearie was singing _Always True to You In My Fashion._ She’d stumbled across the jazz singer in one of those vintage-inspired music compilations. Abruptly, her song was cut off by a phone call. “Hello?” she said quietly, rising. It was Ian. 

“Hullo,” he said. 

“Hi. Hold on a sec,” she told him, grabbing her bag and travel mug. She moved out into the hallway so she wouldn’t interrupt anyone. “How’s your day going?” she asked, leaning against the wall and sipping her coffee. 

“Miserable,” he said.

“Oh no,” Darcy said. “Is it the experiments?”

“What else?” he said irritably. “It’s always the experiments. If I could get some decent help--”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, smiling politely at someone being wheeled by in a wheelchair. There was a moment of quiet on the line. “I’m sorry,” she added, wondering if the odd silence was a sign he was upset. “I know you’re struggling and ready to finish this up,” she said.

“It’s not just that,” he said. “You’re so preoccupied with this nursing job of yours, I hardly hear from you.”

“What?” Darcy said. “Ian, we talk every day. I send you all kinds of jokes to cheer you up--”

“When I was in Sweden working last year, you sent me care packages every fortnight,” he said. “And cards and things. You paid attention to me. Suddenly, your attention is being diverted by that man. I can tell what’s going on here.”

“What?” Darcy repeated, stunned. His voice was hostile.

“Are you having an affair with him?” Ian said. 

“No,” Darcy said. “Ian, we’re just spending time together as he gets well. We’re at physical therapy right now. He’s my friend. He’s been seriously injured.”

“We?” he said. “You know how I feel about couples having friends of the opposite sex--”

“Ian,” Darcy said, sighing. This was one of his more crackpot theories; he thought if she did things with friends that she didn’t do with him, that was a sign she was too emotionally invested in other people. He was especially paranoid about Darcy having guy friends.

“Couples should be each other’s closest friends,” he insisted. “When you’re giving him this much attention, it means he’s --”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Darcy said, finally losing her temper. “I’ve never had a problem with you having female friends, Ian--”

“You know I dislike it when you swear at me,” he said stiffly.

“Sometimes I swear,” she said, rolling her eyes. She couldn’t believe he was pulling this right now, “because you refuse to trust me, like adults trust each other. I trust you, but you don’t trust me.” She leaned against the wall. “And I also think you’re being a little bit sexist.” On the line, he sputtered and then got snippy.

“When you attack me, it only makes me realize, truly, how little you care about my happiness, Darcy,” he said. He was going full British icy now. “It makes me question the entire basis of our marriage. How can we enter into a partnership when one of us isn’t pulling their weight?”

“Uh-huh,” Darcy said. 

“Are you going to respond?” he said. “Or am I to be ignored again?”

“Your life is so difficult,” Darcy said.

“Sarcasm is very unattractive,” he said.

“Tough shit,” she said, hanging up abruptly. She’d never hung up on him before. She looked down at her phone. He was calling back. She muted it. He could stew for awhile, she thought. Stew in his own cup of tea. She fired off a text to Jane.

**World’s Okayest Assistant:** I’m furious at Ian right now.

 **Let’s Get Astro-Physical:** What did he do?

 **World’s Okayest Assistant:** He’s doing that ‘my wife can’t have male friends’ bit AGAIN.

 **Let’s Get Astro-Physical:** I knew he’d be jealous of this guy eventually.

 **World’s Okayest Assistant:** How? Why?

 **Let’s Get Astro-Physical:** Because, it’s so obvious you’re having a great time with him. Ian haaates when you’re happy and he’s not around.

 **World’s Okayest Assistant:** Oh.

 **Let’s Get Astro-Physical:** Ian’s very insecure.

 **World’s Okayest Assistant:** True.

 **Let’s Get Astro-Physical:** I’m sorry, Darce. But please don’t let him make you feel guilty.

 **World’s Okayest Assistant:** I won’t.

 **World’s Okayest Assistant:** I just hung up on him.

 **Let’s Get Astro-Physical:** Yay! [applause gif]

“You okay?” Brock asked, when she walked into the PT room. He must’ve finished his session and had picked her bag and sign.

“Oh, no!” Darcy said. “I didn’t get to give you a final score.”

“Forget about it,” Brock said. “Is something happening with Jane?”

“No,” Darcy said, collecting her sign with a sigh. “Jane’s fine. But you don’t want to hear about my problems--”

“Sure I do,” Brock said, as they walked down the hospital hallway towards the parking lot. “Tell me all about it.”

“Let’s get some coffee and I’ll try to explain,” Darcy said. She didn’t know how to explain Ian’s issues without hurting Brock’s feelings. “And then we’ll go home and I get to surprise you.” They were having his impromptu party this afternoon. She’d done half the balloons before they left for therapy. 

“Can I drive?” Brock asked. At her look, he frowned. “C’mon.”

“Nope. You haven’t been cleared,” Darcy said.

* * *

“Okay,” Darcy said, as they sat at a café table at her favorite coffee shop. “This is going to sound weird.”

“No, not you,” Brock said dryly. Darcy took a sip of her marshmallow mocha and then stuck her tongue out at him.

“Ian,” Darcy said, making another face, “can be very insecure. Also, he has these weird relationship theories about couples having to be each other’s best friends, not someone else.”

“You’re making him sound like a real winner,” Brock said. Darcy snorted, then felt vaguely guilty. 

“So, he’s feeling a little threatened,” Darcy said, “and we had a fight on the phone.”

“Because you’re spending time with me?” Brock asked, frowning. “Shit.”

“He’s being childish,” Darcy said. “I don’t want _you_ to feel bad. I love spending time with you. I really do.” She smiled at him, reaching out and putting her hand on his wrist.

“That’s my damn fault, though,” Brock began.

“He can deal,” Darcy grumbled. She was frowning when a child bumped into her chair. “Whoa, honey,” she said, “you okay?” She caught the girl. But the girl was staring at Brock, transfixed. Her eyes were big and round. 

“What happened to you?” she said bluntly. Darcy sucked in a breath, feeling like she’d been slapped, and looked at Brock in alarm.

“I, uh, was in an accident,” he said, voice steady. Darcy felt like her heart was breaking. 

“Oh,” the girl said, as her mother came to collect her. 

“Emily,” her mother said.

“He was in an accident,” Emily said, pointing at Brock.

“Oh my God,” her mother said. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry--”

“It’s fine,” Brock said. They’d walked away when Darcy looked at him in concern. 

“Are you okay? Do you want to go?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, looking tired. They were walking out of the coffee shop when Darcy reached for him.

“I haven’t wanted to shake someone in elementary school since I was in elementary school,” she said, squeezing his hand. He looked at her in surprise and then started to laugh.

“That right?” he said.

“I did slap a boy for insulting my mama in fourth grade,” Darcy said.

“Yeah?” Brock said.

“I was so shy, my teacher told my mother he was proud of me,” she said, as she got in the car.

“You’re kidding,” he said, getting in next to her.

“Nope. I’m pretty sure you can’t say stuff like that anymore,” Darcy said. Brock buckled his seatbelt with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Brock,” she said, more softly. 

“It’s not your fault that I scare the shit out of small children,” he said, sounding pained. He blinked. She was afraid he was going to sob. Impulsively, she reached over and hugged him.

“Bullshit, that was a bratty child,” she said, whispering close to his burned ear. “You don’t scare anybody,” she insisted. She could feel him shaking slightly. She held him. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice weepy. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling like a party guy right now.”

“It’s okay,” Darcy repeated, rubbing his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

The confetti-filled balloons in the apartment seemed especially mocking when they got home. “Why don’t you rest while I make you some lunch?” Darcy offered. Her plan was to move all the balloons to her room, just so they wouldn’t upset him. Brock frowned.

“I don’t wanna be alone,” he admitted slowly. 

“I’ll come and sit with you,” Darcy said. “You could always take a shower?” She knew the trick was keeping him too busy to get upset or depressed. He needed things to do. Brock was an active person, even if he had trouble admitting how fatigued he got now.

“Yeah,” he said. “Good idea. You want popcorn?” he said, giving her a tired smile. For once, he actually looked his age.

“Yeah,” she said. “Popcorn.” She listened to the water running as she gathered the balloons by their strings and guided them around the ceiling fan and into her bedroom. She futzed over the popcorn and preheated the oven for the lasagna from Stellina’s. He needed to eat, even if he didn’t feel celebratory. Then she heard him in the bedroom. "You okay?" she called out.

"Yeah," he said.

"Get in bed!" she told him. She heard him laugh, then he wheeled into the doorway.

"You are not the first woman to boss me around, trying to get me in a bed," he cracked. Darcy laughed. "Can I help?" he offered. 

"Nope," she said, smiling and making shooing motions. "Go rest."

"Yes, boss," he said.

"I'll be right there," Darcy said. When she stepped in the room, Brock was lying on the bed, hair still damp. He smiled at her. “You wanna binge watch some TV?” she said. She climbed into bed next to him. 

“Sure,” he said. He passed her the remote and took the popcorn in a neat move. She grinned and scrolled through one of his streaming apps. 

“I put lasagna in the oven,” she added. He started to laugh. “What?” she said. He smirked.

“Ma would approve,” Brock told her, rubbing her knee.

* * *

  
“This is nice,” Brock said, looking over the balcony railing. The sun was setting. Darcy had wanted to eat on his balcony. “But are you sick or something?” he teased. “Since when does Indoor Girl want to be out here?”

“Out here is nice,” she insisted, looking sheepish and stubborn all at once. "I like out here." That full bottom lip poked out slightly. He felt himself grinning. 

“Uh-huh,” Brock said, as she ate a forkful of food. It would have felt like a date, at any other point in his life. A woman he was attracted to, a good meal, and privacy. The thought was slightly bitter. 

“What’s wrong?” Darcy said. Brock repressed a sigh; she was too observant, sometimes.

“I was just thinking about how much I’ll miss you when Foster gets back,” he told her. “What am I going to do without my Olympic judge, even if I’ve still got the cactus?” Her gift lived in front of one of the apartment windows.

“We’ll still see each other at work,” Darcy said. “If you don’t mind hanging out with the science nerds, we can always spend lots of time together.” She smiled at him. “Jane and Thor are going to be making out a lot, but--”

“Darcy,” he interrupted, “your boyfriend isn't gonna like that.” In response, she huffed and rolled her eyes. 

“He doesn’t own me,” she said. “And I’m so tired of his crap, you don’t even know.” She crossed her arms and glared at the skyline. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean to bring up something that would upset you,” he began, knowing that he was lying, even to himself. She shook her head.

“Totally not your fault,” she said. “I thought this break would be a reset for us, you know? But he won’t quit being like this.”

“You could leave him?” Brock offered. 

“You sound like Jane,” Darcy replied. 

“She not a fan?” he asked, feeling an odd thrill. 

“He’s a good scientist, but she doesn't think we’re really compatible,” she said. Darcy gestured. “Which, I mean, yeah, we don't have hobbies in common and he can be so freaking difficult sometimes--” 

“Yeah?” Brock said. He leaned forward and captured her hand between his scarred fingers. She had glitter polish on her nails today. Little stars and pink flecks. He stroked her fingers gently. They were slim and smooth against his own calluses and scars. He was rewarded with a surprised look and a slight blush. She actually grinned and ducked her head.

“Brock,” Darcy said.

“I just think you deserve better,” he said, “as a friend.”

“Oh,” she said. There was a moment of tension and then his phone rang. 

“Hold on,” Brock said, letting go of her, “I want to discuss this.” He answered the phone. “Rumlow,” he said. It was a SHIELD number.

“Brock,” a female voice said, “it’s Deb Ann. I was calling to see how you’re doing?” The SHIELD lawyer was one of his exes.

“I’m doing well. How are you?” he asked, hiding his irritation.

“Wonderful,” she trilled. “Maybe we can have dinner sometime? I know you’ve got Jane Foster’s assistant as a minder, but I have a friend I’d like you to meet--”

“I’d love to have dinner, but I don't know how my minder would feel about that, Deb Ann,” Brock said, making a face at Darcy.

“Minder?” Darcy mouthed. He grinned and winked. When he hung up, Darcy looked curious. “Who was that?” she asked.

“My ex from legal,” Brock said.

“Oh,” Darcy said. She looked at the street below them. “She thinks I’m your minder?”

“Everyone at work probably thinks I’m climbing the walls and you're aiming a tranq gun at me,” Brock said. "She's trying to get me to go on a blind date."

“Oh,” Darcy said. 

“But I,” he said, leaning forward, “am having a great time with you.”

“Mmmm,” Darcy said, smiling at him. She looked happy. He loved her little noises. This was something between a thoughtful _hmmm_ and a sexy moan. His favorite. She let out a breath. “Do you want cannoli?” she offered, seeming to catch herself. She looked away. Was she thinking what he was thinking?

“Darcy,” he said, throwing away his sister’s advice. “I don't want cannoli. I’m crazy about you. I want you.”


	8. Just One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“W-what?” Darcy said. _Had he just said what she thought he said?_ The sound of traffic from the street below was suddenly noisy. Brock had leaned forward and was watching her, eyes intent.

“I think you should leave Ian,” Brock said. “Because we’d be happier together than you are with him.” Darcy stared at him. In the distance, a car honked.

“Brock, I’m engaged,” she said. “I can’t just up and leave like that. Ian and I are committed--it’s a serious commitment.” He looked at her with an almost puzzled expression. 

“He doesn’t respect you,” Brock said. “He might care about you, but he doesn’t respect you.” It was so close to Darcy’s own suspicions about Ian that she flinched and felt resistant.

“We’re working on our differences,” she said stubbornly, dropping her eyes to her plate.

“Uh-huh,” he said. When she looked up, he looked uncomfortable.

“I do like you,” Darcy said slowly. “And if I was single, it would be a different story, but, I--I can’t just upend everything,” she said. “Ian and I, we normally work together, live together. We’re practically already married.” He nodded wordlessly. “It would be a mess. And you and I--we don’t really know each other,” Darcy said, leaning forward. She reached for his hand. “Brock, look at me. You’ve been through a lot,” she said, rubbing her thumb over his scarred skin. “So much,” she said. “And we get along so well. It’s only natural to maybe feel like there’s something there, that, uh--” Darcy looked at his hand again.

“Something special?” he said, an odd note in his voice. 

“Yes,” she agreed. “But you don’t really know if you’d like being in a serious relationship with me--”

“Says who?” Brock said. 

“Everyone!” Darcy said. “You date women who are nothing like me.”

“You been asking about that?” he said, expression shifting. His tilted his head and smiled slowly. “You asked first,” he said. He tapped the table with his free hand, chuckling. “You asked around about me, which means you’ve been thinking about it, too.”

“No, I--” Darcy said, feeling herself blush. 

“You’re blushing,” he said.

“Shut up,” Darcy grumbled. “I’m starting on the cannoli. If you want to help, you can help.” She stood up and left him sitting there.

“I can tell you have feelings!” he called after her. She was unsteadily trying to attach a decorative tip to the bag of ricotta filling when Brock rolled into the kitchen. “Darcy,” he said. 

“Damn it,” she said. She couldn’t get it to work. She set her hands on the edge of the counter. “Okay, maybe I have feelings,” Darcy said, looking at an empty cannoli shell. “Some feelings.”

“Yeah?” he said. He wheeled closer to her. He was at her elbow, she realized. “You wanna explore those feelings? See where they go?” Brock said. Darcy felt his hand slide down her elbow and forearm. The texture of his hands felt good.

“No,” Darcy said. “I know where they go.”

“Do you?” Brock said. He waited a beat. “You want to tell me?”

“I break up with Ian, we get together, I--” Darcy said.

“You what?” he said.

“I really, really like you,” Darcy said. 

“Yeah?” he said. When she looked at him, Brock was smiling. She looked away.

“But you get bored,” Darcy said. “I bore you--I’m not exciting. I like staying home and watching _Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries_ and you date exciting women. _Lots_ of exciting women.” 

“Honey,” he said, putting his hands on her hips. “That’s not true.”

“But it is true,” Darcy said, turning to face him. “It’s perfectly true. Some people are exciting people. Charismatic people. And they get away with everything--they stand people up, they’re bad partners, whatever, and people take them back again.” She sighed. “I’m not one of those people. I know myself. I’m reliable and I’m happy with small things.” He was looking at her waist, fingers kneading her hips.

“Small things, huh?” Brock said. He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh God,” Darcy said. 

“C’mere,” he said, trying to coax her into his lap. He cupped her elbows. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Darcy said. “Your skin--Brock.”

“I’m sturdy enough,” he said, pulling her down gently. She sat in his lap. “Big enough, too,” Brock added.

“That is a terrible line. You must be feeling better,” Darcy said, straightening his shirt collar. The edge of the t-shirt was folded. Was it simple lust, she wondered?

“Yeah,” he said. He leaned in. “C’mon. Give into your impulses a little?”

“No,” Darcy said, huffing a little. She turned her head to avoid temptation. His mouth was close. 

“No?” he said.

“I’ve seen all your medical records, you haven’t even been cleared for baths,” she said. “Much less sex. I shouldn’t even be sitting here.” She sighed again. “I don’t cheat. I don’t even illegally download music!”

“You never break rules, huh?” he said.

“No,” she said, feeling disappointment. She wanted to break rules.

“What about Thor’s fake ID?” Brock pointed out. 

“That was to help him,” Darcy reasoned. “He needed that ID!”

“I need you,” Brock said. “I need help.”

“Make cannoli with me,” Darcy said, prying herself away from him. He looked at her. “And I’ll make almond whipped cream.”

“Do I get to do anything fun with it?” he said, grinning.

“No,” Darcy said. “You’re just getting the boring parts of spending time with me, understood?” He smirked at her. “You’re getting to hear my weird stories and me making you cannoli and helping you with physical therapy, okay?” she told him. “Nothing else.” She got heavy cream out of the fridge.

“That’s not a no,” Brock said. 

“Mmmm,” Darcy said. 

“I like that sound,” he told her. “I’ve got a present for you. It came in the mail today.”

“What kind of present?” Darcy said, turning back. He grinned.

“That got your attention,” he said. “Let’s make some cannoli.” He put his hand in the small of her back for a second and she tried not to show any response. If she smiled, he might think she was encouraging him. All through cannoli construction, she tried to get information about this mystery gift he’d mentioned, but Brock kept shaking his head.

“I had no idea you were such a perfectionist,” she told him. He was rescattering pistachios over some of the cannoli. She snapped a photo of him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m taking a picture of this to send to Angela,” Darcy said, “so she’ll know what you’re up to you.” He scrunched his nose.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Brock said. 

“Stop wiggling,” Darcy said, as she rubbed moisturizer into Brock’s burned shoulders thirty minutes later. “Why are you so antsy? Bored already?” she asked. There was a plate of cannoli several inches from her knee and _Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries_ on his bedroom television. She was testing his tolerance for all her habits.

“I’m not bored,” he said stubbornly. He half-turned his head to look at her. “I itch, that’s all,” he said. “I have itches that nobody’ll let me scratch,” he complained. She snorted. He grinned at her. “You wanna see your present?” he offered. 

“No,” she sassed. They had cycled through Darcy’s curious questions and his refusals and now she was pretending to be disinterested. “I am indifferent to your charms.”

“Charms? You think I’m charming you?” Brock said.

“Uh-huh,” Darcy said. She wiped her hands on the towel underneath him and then sat back and ate a cannoli noisily. Brock smiled. “But I’m immune to handsome men with presents.” 

“You think I’m still handsome?” he said. She nodded, chewing.

“You _know_ you’re still handsome,” Darcy said. He blinked a little. 

“You really think that?” Brock said. He looked forward. Onscreen, Phryne Fisher was dancing a slow tango. “Shit, you really think that.”

“Of course I do,” Darcy said. She licked the edge of a cannoli. He swore under his breath. 

  
  


* * *

“Hi,” Darcy said into the phone, “did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. What’s happening?” Jane said sleepily.

“I’m having thoughts--I wanted to talk to you,” Darcy said. She pitched her voice quietly. She didn’t want Brock to overhear. 

“Okay,” Jane said.

“How big a mess would there be in the lab if I left Ian?” she said. “Because I’m thinking of leaving Ian.”

“Ohhhh,” Jane said. “For you or for Brock?”

“Brock has, uh, feelings,” Darcy said. “And I have feelings--”

“I knew it,” Jane said.

“But I’d be doing this for me. Leaving him for me,” Darcy clarified. “All these issues we’re having, they would be there if Brock wasn’t here. Ian would still be jealous and temperamental--”

“Yep,” Jane said. “I think you know, Darce.”

“Yeah,” Darcy said. She frowned and looked at the ring on her finger. “I think I should call him now.” 

“Yeah,” Jane said. “Just tell him.” She and Jane hung up and she stared at her phone again. 

“Okay,” Darcy said. “Okay.” She tapped the screen. The phone rang and rang. She got his voicemail. ”Ian, this is Darcy,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you.” She took a deep breath. Should she do this now? “I think we both know that things have been...difficult between us. And we should talk about them. Things--neither of us is happy.” She paused. The system beeped. She’d run out of time. “Shit,” she muttered. It was difficult to say _let’s break up_ in a voicemail.

“Darcy?” Brock called. “Where’d you go?”

“I’ll be right there. Don’t move!” Darcy yelled back. She stopped on the way out of the room and slipped her engagement ring off, leaving it in her jewelry box. He was looking up at her, still sprawled on his stomach, when she came back into the room. “You moved,” she said.

“I didn’t move, sweetheart,” he argued. 

“A cannoli is missing,” Darcy said. 

“Oh,” Brock said. “Shit.” He grinned. "Just one." She climbed in bed with him. “Why’d you leave?” he said.

“You fell asleep, so I called Jane,” Darcy said. “Just to catch up.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“How are the backs of your legs?” Darcy asked, peering curiously at his calves. He was wearing gym shorts.

“Did you want to check?” he said dryly.

“No,” Darcy said. 

“You want to open your present?” Brock said.

“Okay,” Darcy said. He grinned and retrieved a package--something rectangular in a plastic shipping bag--from the nightstand. He sat it in front of her knees. 

“Open it,” he said. Darcy exhaled, then tore it open carefully. Inside was a box. A box in the shape of a book. 

“Ohhhh,” she said, lifting the faux book’s cover. Within was dark tissue paper that crumpled as she tore it. “Brock!” she said. Underneath was a scarf. A book scarf. More than one, actually. He’d chosen a Jane Austen novel, the Nancy Drew, and a red and cream one with a frankly romantic poem. “These are beautiful,” she said. The box had a soft, earthy smell. “I can’t believe--you got three of them?” She was floored. 

“I think I got the ones you wanted,” he said, “but if you want a different one--”

“No,” Darcy said, looking at him in bewilderment and delight, “these are perfect. I can’t believe you bought them for me. When--why?”

“Ordered ‘em a few days ago,” Brock said. He shrugged. “I just wanted to. Not just because I think we’d be good together--you deserve something nice.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling swoony. She leaned over and kissed him lightly. When she pulled back, he was looking at her with an unreadable expression.

“I thought you didn’t break rules?” he said.

“Just one,” she whispered.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Storiarts is having a Black Friday sale, if you, too, want a book scarf: https://storiarts.com/collections/scarves


	9. Cole Porter? Cole Porter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“You keep smiling. Why are you smiling?” Brock asked. Darcy looked at him. They were sitting in a coffee shop before his PT appointment. The milk steamers were running and they were playing holiday music.

“I can see my scarf in the mirror,” she said, trying to cover for her weird, giddy mood. Nancy Drew was solving crimes around her neck and she felt all of twelve after last night’s kiss. Twelve and smitten. Even if he’d gently rebuffed her offer to sleep in the bed with him in one word: _Ian._ Darcy hadn’t spoken directly to Ian, yet. She’d called this morning and it had gone straight to voicemail again. She’d left another message. 

“Uh-huh,” he said, grinning so his scars twisted. “No other reason?”

“There might be a guy,” Darcy admitted. His expression shifted a little. It was almost yearning. Darcy’s heart thudded in her chest. She didn’t know what he’d say.

“You like the guy?” he said quietly. She nodded. 

“I do,” she said, beaming at him. “I was sort of hoping he’d go out with me someday soon.”

“Yeah?” Brock said. He leaned forward. “What’s his name again?”

“Stop!” Darcy said, laughing. “We have to go, we’re going to be late.” She stood up, picking up her coffee cup.

“That therapist gets all cranky when you’re late,” he said.

“I’m late? _I’m_ late?” she said. “I’m not the one who spends all this time in front of the mirror on his hair--”

“My hair’s all long,” Brock complained, as she held open the door. “I need a haircut. I feel like it’s 1989.” He’d slicked back the sides of his hair. He liked keeping them clipped short, apparently. Now they gleamed with gel.

“I was three then,” Darcy said happily.

“Jesus, I’m an old man,” Brock said.

“Yup,” she said.

“You were supposed to argue with that,” he said, sighing. 

“Nope,” she said.

Once she got him to therapy, she snuck off to the ladies’ room and tried to call Ian another time. _“Please leave a message--”_ his voice said over the phone. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Darcy decided to take action. No more neutral, vague requests. Rip the Band-Aid off. That’s what Jane would suggest, she thought. And she was so happy. Even edging towards a decision made her feel better somehow.

“Ian, this is Darcy. I’ve been trying to call, but I keep missing you. I didn’t want to do this over the phone, but,” she said, pausing, “I think we should end the engagement. Neither of us is happy.” The voicemail system beeped and she swore. She’d run out of time. So she called again and stumbled over her words. “I will send the ring back to you however you want? I’ll get insurance or something, or you can wait until you’re in the States. Whatever you want,” she added. Darcy hung up. That was it. It was over. She hadn’t known if she would cry. In the mirror, her eyes were totally dry. She felt oddly relieved, like she’d finished a long, difficult project or put down something heavy and awkward. “Ahhhh,” she whispered to herself. “I’m single.” She did a little dance. “I’m single!” she repeated. She left the bathroom happily. When she got back to the PT room, Brock was doing a hip strengthening exercise on one of the machines. He raised and lowered his hips into bridge pose slowly. When she caught his eye, he winked at her. Darcy laughed and held up one of her signs. 

“Ten out of ten?” Brock called out. She beamed at him.

“Yep!” she said, waving the sign back and forth.

“My first one,” he said.

“Okay,” Darcy said, when he finished physical therapy and they moved out into the hallway. “I have two ideas. Do you want to hear them?” she asked, juggling her bags.

“Shoot,” he said, sliding his jacket on. He grinned up at her from his wheelchair; she’d almost dropped a sticker-spangled sign with “7 Out of 10!” writteen a looping script.

“One, we go see your hair guy or find a barbershop,” she said, tickling it off on one finger, “because a fresh haircut makes you feel fancy--”

“Agreed,” he said. Darcy had realized Brock was a little vain about his hair.

“Two, we got home and make a pasta from that Stellina’s happiness box that I got us,” she said, gesturing again. They still had two dry pastas and sauces to try.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s the third one?”

“Three, we curl up on the couch and don’t talk to anybody,” Darcy said. “You can pick the movie or whatever, I just want to snuggle you. Deal?” 

“I have an alternative plan?” Brock said.

“All righty,” Darcy said. “Tell me your plan.”

“We postpone my haircut and your pasta until next week,” he said, reaching into a bag on his chair. “And take the train to see Ma. She wants to see both of us--you, mostly--and it’s a long weekend,” Brock said. He’d already bought the train tickets to New York. His expression was careful. 

“Ahhhhhhhh!” Darcy said, shrieking and beaming. “A surprise trip!” She bounced a little on her heels. At her joyous reaction, Brock relaxed. “But we need to get all of your skin stuff. And I need clothes, obviously,” Darcy added. 

“Do you?” he joked, smirking so his scars twitched.

“This is the best day,” she told him, reaching down to pick up her travel mug. “I’ve never been on a surprise trip that didn’t include telescopes or aliens.”

  
  


* * *

“This is not a fancy train,” Brock said, as they rode the Amtrak to New York. He’d caught her looking around happily, Darcy thought, holding her latte. She’d taken a bunch of photos of Union Station. Including the station’s food court-style Bojangles, which she’d sent to Jane. 

“But it’s so much nicer than driving--” Darcy cut in, leaning on him a little.

“--but I found this online,” he told her, passing her an envelope. “And I thought you’d like it.” 

“Oooooh,” Darcy said, opening it eagerly. Then she burst out laughing: inside the envelope was an Amtrak-themed card with a cute drawing. A cartoon conductor’s hat was hanging off the train beneath a red heart emblazoned with a slogan: _Next Stop: My Heart!_ “Oh my God, I love it!” she told him. 

“They make the Valentine’s,” Brock said modestly. “I just printed it out.” But she could tell he was happy.

“This is the best,” Darcy said. “Your mom is so excited, too.” Angela had been texting her since Brock called to ask if she could pick them up from the station. His mother lived in the Bronx, he’d told Darcy, so she had a little car. 

“You realize you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who would say that,” Brock told her wryly.

“That cannot be true,” Darcy said. She snapped a photo of her card and wiggled happily, humming to herself.

“What are you humming?” Brock asked.

 _“I Happen To Like New York,”_ Darcy said. “It’s a Cole Porter song. I’ve had the Judy Garland version stuck in my head allllll afternoon.” She beamed at him. “Pink Martini really ought to cover it.”

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. “Cole Porter?”

“Cole Porter,” Darcy said, nodding seriously. She glanced out the window as the train clipped along. “I’m stupid happy,” she told Brock.

“Yeah?” he said. His mouth had turned up a little at the corners.

“I told Ian I’d send back the ring,” Darcy confessed, then wondered if a three-hour train trip was exactly the wrong way to tell someone you’d broken up with your fiancée? “I mean, no pressure on you,” she added hurriedly. “But he and I are over.” Brock was staring at her now.

“You’re telling me this now?” he said, starting to laugh.

“What?” Darcy said.

“Well, I can stop worrying about impressing you as much,” he said slyly. “I was worried the train was too fucking grubby for this to be romantic and you’d decide I was a letdown.”

“Shush, this is very romantic,” she insisted. “And I was already impressed. Here”--she popped out an earbud and pressed it gently into his scarred ear-- “listen to Avalon Jazz Band and Carla Bruni with me, it’s _almost_ as good as being in Europe.”

“I worry about your standards sometimes,” Brock told her, grinning. But he let her play French jazz for most of the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Printable Amtrak Valentine's exist! http://blog.amtrak.com/2020/02/amtrak-valentines-day-cards/
> 
> The Avalon Jazz Band: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-uYVnqOdr9s


	10. Don't Say The Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Getting out at Penn Station was chaotic. “Are we lost?” Darcy said, trying to find an elevator. There had been a delay and then it was crowded in the station. She’d convinced Brock to use his wheelchair. It was helpful because people didn’t bump her too much, either. She just had to watch her little rolling suitcase.

“I can take the damn escalator,” Brock said. 

“No,” Darcy said firmly. “This is about the principle of the thing. There should be an elevator. Places need to be fucking accessible.”

“You just said fuck,” Brock said. “You never say fuck.”

“I say fuck!” Darcy insisted, before she realized a mom with two kids was giving her a look. “Sorry!”

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. He snorted.

“Call your mom, please,” Darcy said.

“You think she could send Search and Rescue?” he asked wryly.

“You’d think there’d be some signage,” Darcy grumbled, scanning the walls around the mass of people.

“I can stand,” he muttered. “We can fold this up and use the escalator.”

“You are not an inconvenience for taking care of yourself,” she said firmly. “Ah ha!” Darcy had spotted an elevator. “There,” she told him. They had to plunge into the crowd against foot traffic; Darcy put her hands on his shoulders and they went in as a unit. It was more than a little dodgy. She sighed with relief when they got inside the elevator.

“Was it worth all that?” Brock asked. Darcy started to giggle. “What?” he said.

“This is the part when I tell you I really, really hate escalators. I’ve been afraid of them since I was a kid,” she said.

“Seriously?”

“I really don’t think floors should move, you know?” Darcy said. “Tiny pet peeve of mine when they seem able to suck up your fingers and toes.”

“Sensible rule,” Brock said, smirking at her. 

“Well, who decided the weird love child of a meat grinder and a car crusher was a great way to get from one floor to another?” Darcy asked. The elevator doors opened as he laughed. They exited the elevator and found their way outside the building. Technically, they were in Madison Square Garden. Darcy looked around at the city traffic. “When people say Madison Square Garden, you really picture something different in your head,” she told him. 

“Uh-huh,” Brock said. He checked his phone. “Ma’s been delayed. She says to get coffee or something.” 

“Okay,” Darcy said. She looked at him. “You’re making a weird face,” she said.

“I’m still processing your escalator thing,” he said teasingly. “You got any other weird phobias I should know about?”

“I don’t like heights,” she admitted, ticking it off on a finger, “or snakes.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. 

“Cold quinoa is yucky, but that’s not really a phobia,” Darcy said. “More of an aversion.”

“Sure,” he said. 

“I’m also a little afraid of New Gringrich’s wife,” Darcy said, checking her phone for coffee shops. “I think she might be the White Witch of Narnia--” she was saying as Brock laughed. “Oh, wait, we’re near a Macy’s. The Macy’s! 34th Street. That’s so neat,” Darcy said. “Let’s go there. We need to get your mom something.”

“What?” Brock said, still chuckling.

“When someone invites you to stay, you bring a gift,” Darcy said. “And they have a Godiva shop.”

“I’m pretty sure they have escalators, too,” he said dryly.

“Shhh,” Darcy said. “We won’t speak of them.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Newt Gingrich’s wife,” Brock said.

“Lucky,” Darcy murmured. They arrived at the 34th Street store and she insisted they circle the exterior and take photos of the windows with holiday decorations for Jane and Thor. “I wonder where Santa is?” she said, when they went inside, sliding her suitcase onto the bottom of the cart. Brock was stubbornly refusing to unlatch his bag from his wheelchair.

“You don’t really believe Santa’s real, right?” he said wryly.

“I’m not sure it’s legal to say that in this Macy’s,” she sassed back. She looked around happily. “This is so much fun.”

“You actully mean that, don’t you?” Brock said, tilting his head up at her. He looked quizzical.

“Absolutely,” Darcy said. She suppressed a shudder at the memory of spending the week before last Christmas with Ian, doing one of the National Trails. It had been an unusually warm English winter and he’d insisted it would be fun. It had not been fun. Darcy had fallen several times when Ian insisted on going off-trail for a better view and they’d clamored up and down hills. She had been cold, muddy, and miserable. The only bright spot had been meeting the dogs of other bonkers outdoorsy people. 

“What?” Brock said.

“You do not want to know,” she told. They found the Godiva store inside Macy’s all the way on the 6th floor. She picked out truffles and chocolate strawberries for Angela and made Brock split one of the store’s signature soft-serve cones with her. 

“It’s December,” he said. “Chocolate ice cream?”

“So, then we have an excuse get coffee,” Darcy said. They traded the cone back and forth. “What are you getting your mother for Christmas?” she asked, when she caught him watching her lick the cone. 

“The gift of me?” he said.

“Pfffhhhht,” Darcy said. “I can see why you need me for this.” She grinned and crunched a corner of their waffle cone. He ceded the entire thing to her and she refused to feel embarrassed about biting down the edges and sticking her tongue down into the bottom of the crunchy tip. He sighed heavily. “What?” Darcy said, pretending to be obtuse. She’d thought he would tease her.

“I wanna be cleared for sex,” he said woefully. Darcy burst out laughing. “That’s mean,” he told her, pouting a little.

“You just said that so sad,” Darcy said. “Okay,” she said, discarding her trash and wiping her hands. “Let’s find your mom a present.”

“I probably should get something for Fallon and the kids, too,” he said.

“We can do that,” Darcy said. She’d gotten him to smile by the time they picked out earrings for his sister and plushes for his niece and nephew; an elephant and a realistic-looking owl respectively. Darcy lingered over the FAO Schwartz llamas.

“You want one, too, don’t you?” Brock said, grinning.

“Maybe,” she admitted. 

“Get a llama,” he said. 

“But I don’t need him,” Darcy averred. She shook her head. “Nope.” 

“You’re sure?” he said.

“Yep,” Darcy said. She pretended not to notice when he snuck the llama into her cart anyway.

“Now what do we get Ma?” he asked.

“Oh, I know this,” she said. Darcy dragged Brock over to the Estee Lauder counter. “This one.” She picked out a perfume gift set.

“Why this one?” he said.

“Nobody ever minded getting something called Beautiful,” Darcy said. 

“Good point,” he said, swapping the one she’d offered for a more expensive one with more things in it. 

“The gift of you, huh?” she said, secretly delighted.

“Sometimes, I’m a letdown,” Brock said dryly. 

“Nah,” Darcy said. She raked her fingers through his hair affectionately. “Goof around while I get you something, please.”

“What do you want?” he called, as she walked away.

“I’ve already got it,” Darcy said, looking back. “But don’t run off with somebody.” She caught the eye of a smiling saleswoman. “I know he’s a charmer, but I’ve got custody of him until at least New Year’s.” He grinned at her. She kept looking back and made sure the sales associate was helping him checkout before she went to the mens’ department.

She’d found his gift and was checking out at one the registers when he called to say his mother was there. “She’s circling the block,” he said dryly. “I don’t know how long we’ll have before somebody decides she’s planning to rob the place.” Darcy burst out laughing. 

“I’ll be right there,” she promised. 

“Escalators are faster--” he began.

“Don’t say the words!” Darcy said. She hurried downstairs and met him at the entrance. 

“She’s outside,” he said.

“Parked outside?” Darcy asked, dubiously.

“Sweetheart, everybody’s parked outside,” he said, “from here to fucking Buffalo.”

“Buffalo,” Darcy repeated, giggling. They found his mother’s car sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic in Herald Square. 

“Hello, honey!” Angela said, waving. Then she looked at Brock. “You need help getting in the car.”

“I’m fine, Ma--” he began,

“This feels illegal,” Darcy said, hustling to get the bags into the trunk. "Are we getting arrested or just run over?"

“Nobody’s gonna hit a guy in a wheelchair,” Brock said, helping her. Someone honked loudly behind them.

“Are you sure about that?” Darcy asked, but he didn’t hear her. He was busy glaring and gesturing at the car behind them. “C’mon,” Darcy said. “You can die in a road rage incident later, when I don’t have to testify.” She got him into the passenger seat in the car and wiggled herself into the back next to the chair. Shutting the door, Darcy sighed in relief.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Angela said brightly. “Both of you.”Darcy was buckling her seatbelt when Brock spoke.

“It’ll be nice to sit in traffic with you, Ma,” he cracked.

“Cynic!” Darcy said. “Where can we look at Christmas stuff?” she asked Angela. “I’m very excited.”

“She wants to see all the windows,” Brock told his mother.

“And lights, I love lights,” Darcy said. 

“She had chocolate,” he said dryly.

“Well, you’ve got to see Tiffany’s, Saks, Bergdorf’s, and the Spirellis while you’re here,” Angela said. Brock started to laugh.

“Spirellis?” Darcy asked.

“They live down the street from us,” he told her, still chuckling. “In the Bronx.”

“It’s the biggest holiday display in the whole neighborhood!” Angela said. “They go all out, honey.”

“Okay,” Darcy said happily.

“It’ll take like two hours to get there in this traffic,” Brock grumbled.

“Shhh,” Darcy said, peering out the window.

“Look how happy she is,” Angela whispered. “You haven’t looked that happy since you were about seven years old.” In her peripheral vision, Darcy saw Brock make a face and then glance back at her.

“I’m not sure she’s sane,” he mock-whispered. Darcy started to giggle as his mother scolded him.

It had gotten dark by the time they left Manhattan for the Bronx. That meant all the lights on Angela’s street sparkled. “Oh my God,” Darcy said, stunned. The houses in this neighborhood were all slightly elevated and close together. Multiple houses were bedecked in lights and the tiny front yards featured Nativities, inflatable characters, and all kinds of decorations: candy canes, waist-high snowflakes, even a massive Santa. “This is incredible,” Darcy said, leaning so her nose was almost pressed against the window glass on her side of the backseat. “Can we go around the block again?”

“She likes it,” Brock said. “I told you she was crazy, Ma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written all of the Macy's stuff when @ibelieveinturtles sent me the GREATEST video of an Italian neighborhood in New York all done up for the holidays, so of course, that had to make an appearance (you can tell it's an Italian neighborhood because all the "in loving memory of..." signs have Italian names, too).
> 
> https://fb.watch/2vBKaHdEAv/
> 
> There really is a Godiva store with signature ice cream in the 34th Street Macy's: https://www.yelp.com/biz/godiva-new-york-10
> 
> And of course, Macy's looks hella fun. The 2020 holiday windows: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSrNGgRBHcM  
> And last year's too: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMemO8QMwzg


	11. Pazzo pazzo...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing! Happy New Year's Eve!

“And this is Michael and Teresa and Jimmy--” Angela said, introducing Darcy to the people crowded into the house. Darcy was slightly overwhelmed by the sea of smiling faces at Angela’s. 

“Hi,” she said, holding her hand up in a little embarrassed wave.

“Ma, don’t scare her to death,” Brock said behind them. He was stubbornly insisting on hoisting himself slowly up the front steps, while two of his cousins carried his chair in. Darcy looked at him in concern. “I’ve got three dozen cousins,” he said in a slightly louder than normal voice. He was grimacing as he pulled his foot over the last step, leaning on the iron railing. “Just yell Mikey or Tina if you need something, somebody’ll come running,” he said. There was laughter from the group. Darcy hovered at his elbow.

“You okay?” she asked Brock anxiously.

“I’m fine,” he said, sinking into his chair.

“She’s a cute nurse, Brock!” someone yelled from the back of the room. Darcy couldn’t remember if that was his Uncle Ralphie or his Uncle Stevie.

“Shut up, you comedian,” Brock said. “And stop snickering, Tommy.” He pointed a finger at the cousin who’d carried up his wheelchair. “Where’s Fal?” he asked his mother. “I want her to meet Darcy.”

“She and Mike are on their way, they were visiting his parents in Connecticut,” Angela said. “I’ll get you two drinks--no, no don’t worry about it, honey,” she added, when Darcy tried to follow her into the kitchen. “Do you want some wine or some hot cocoa?”

“Hot cocoa,” Darcy said.

“Me, too, Ma,” Brock said.

“You’re not drinking?” his mother said, pausing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Darcy’s a good influence, Ma. When will Fal be here?” he asked. Angela had beamed at Darcy before ducking into the other room. Darcy could see an astonishing array of food and things cooking when she peered in curiously. Brock caught her wrist and ran his thumb over it. “Don’t go in there, she’ll have you peeling shrimp,” he whispered.

“She called from New Haven this afternoon, she’ll be here in the morning,” Angela called out. “And I heard that!”

“Oh, New Haven,” Brock mocked his mother’s tone gently.

“What’s wrong with New Haven?” Darcy asked.

“My brother in law’s parents are, uh, Yale people,” he said. “Ma was very impressed with all their antique furniture.” Brock gestured dismissively.

“Don’t you be a snob,” Angela said, reemerging with mugs. “They had some very beautiful things, very tasteful. And Mike loves your sister.” She looked at Darcy. “He really adores her. And I won’t have you peeling shrimp, you’re a guest!”

“I don’t mind helping,” Darcy said.

“You’re helping my son, that’s enough,” Angela said. For a second, she looked emotional.

“Oh God, nobody cry,” Brock said. “Also, Mike loves Fal because she’s the most exciting thing to ever happen to him. He’s an accountant who roots for the Patriots.” Brock’s scornful declaration caught the attention of one of his cousins.

“Why you gotta always be trash-talking Belichick?” Tommy said.

“He cheats,” Brock said, clearly spoiling for a fight. Darcy thought he looked happy. Very quickly, she found herself settled in a chair next to him in the living room, listening to an aggressive debate about football, while Angela topped off her cocoa every five minutes. Football cycled into New York mayoral politics. “Nobody actually likes de Blasio,” Brock proclaimed. “It’s not possible. Thanks, Ma,” he said, as Angela brought them snacks.

“We’re sitting down in five minutes,” she said. 

“Somebody has to like the man, he got votes,” another cousin--Darcy thought it might be Nick--said. "But who?"

“What about Mrs. de Blasio?” Darcy offered.

“Nah. He’s got all the personality of a dead fish,” Brock said at the same time.

“Even she’s gotta be having second thoughts,” Brock’s cousin Teri said to Darcy. “It’s not enough for a man to be tall.”

“I agree,” Darcy said. “Being tall is overrated.”

“I see why you like her,” Tommy said to Brock. It was fun, Darcy thought. There was enough noise and people that you could talk or be quiet, depending on your mood. Oddly low pressure. It was the perfect set up for one-liners, too. She zinged Brock about being a cannoli perfectionist in front of two dozen relatives and he actually blushed.

“I wanted ‘em to look good!” he insisted. 

“That’s very nice, honey,” Angela said. “Come on everybody, dinner’s ready.” It was a squeeze for everybody to get a chair in at the table. She found herself seated between Brock and his very elderly Great Uncle Gino at dinner. Gino was thin and quiet, but he kept smiling gently at Darcy as they ate. When he spoke to her, she couldn’t quite hear what he said.

“Pardon me?” Darcy said, leaning closer.

 _“...una persona simpatica,”_ he said.

“He says you’re a nice girl,” Brock said. “Uncle Gino doesn’t speak English, he was born in Sicily and he’s ninety-one.”

“Oh,” Darcy said. “I’m so sorry.” She brought out her phone and stumbled through half a conversation with him, using Google translate and sounding out words in what was probably butchered and awful Italian. When she looked up, she realized Brock was grinning at her. “Stop that!” she said, elbowing him. He pretended to be injured. 

“You’ve stabbed a burned man with your bony elbow,” he said, clutching his side. “A vicious attack. Heartless woman.” Darcy giggled.

“Pazzo,” Gino said, tapping his forehead. 

“That means crazy,” Teri said.

“Gotcha,” Darcy said. 

* * *

“Ma, whaddya mean you’ve got me and Darcy in separate rooms?” Brock complained that night. The relatives who lived nearby had been ferried home by designated drivers and a few people were sleeping it off upstairs. They were the last people left in the kitchen. Brock had very cutely insisted on making Darcy another after-dinner espresso. She was sort of addicted to them now--and charmed by he and his mother’s vocal disagreement on who made the best espresso. Angela favored the illy ground espresso she’d been drinking for years, while he had strong opinions about some sort of high-end espresso that came as whole bean and was allegedly fresher and better. His mother had declared him a food snob. 

“You need to be downstairs,” his mother said. “The couch is very comfortable!”

“I agree,” Darcy said, helping with some of the dishes.

“Thank you, honey,” Angela said, carrying out trash.

“You’re siding with her?” Brock said, staring.

“You are not cleared for anything fun anyway,” she said quietly. “You know that.” He scrunched his nose and grimaced.

“I can do some fun stuff,” he said. “There’s other fun stuff. I had plans.”

“I’m going to pretend I did not hear that,” Angela said, frowning at him, as she walked back into the kitchen. “Besides, how was I supposed to know you’d convince her to leave someone British?” Angela said. She’d stressed the last word.

“What? I’m much better looking than him even now,” Brock insisted. “Ma, he’s pale.” Darcy burst out laughing as his disappointed face turned incredulous. “Darcy, tell her,” Brock said. “He ain’t exactly Prince William or something.” She had to clap her hands over her mouth. He gave her a look. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he said scoldingly. He wagged his finger at her. Darcy stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Poor Prince William,” Angela said. “Losing all his hair like that. He looked so much like his mother when he was young.”

“It’s very sad,” Darcy said, coaxing her fingers through Brock’s hair. He gazed up at her, then captured her hands and kissed them gently. “I’m going upstairs,” she announced. 

“You’re going to bed this early?” he said, frowning. He hadn’t let her hands go. 

“I’ll be back down to check on you in a minute,” Darcy whispered, leaning down to kiss him lightly.

“Okay,” he said, studying her. As Darcy climbed the stairs, she heard him talking to Angela in a pleased voice. They were discussing going into the city to see the Christmas windows. Their voices faded at she ascended. She shut the door in the guest room with a smile. Taking off her Nancy Drew scarf, she set it gently on the dresser and unzipped her suitcase. It only took a few minutes to unpack what she’d brought with her. Darcy changed into her pajamas and brushed her teeth, humming Christmas tunes to herself. Then she took out the presents and made sure they were all correctly tagged. It was fun to put them in a little pile on the foot of the bed. Then she crept quietly downstairs in her socks. “Careful,” Brock said. She realized he was sitting on the couch and had turned his head to look at her. “Those steps are slippery, sweetheart,” he said.

“Hey,” Darcy said, padding over to sit next to him. They were sitting in front of the Christmas tree. “Your mom gave you plenty of blankets.” There were about three comforters on the couch and two pillows. Darcy climbed underneath one.

“She thinks I’ll be cold,” Brock said, putting an arm around her.

“This is nice,” Darcy said, resting her head against his shoulder and gazing at the twinkling lights. “Thank you for bringing me.” She leaned over to nuzzle him. “It’s very romantic.”

“Lewis, we’re sitting on my mother’s couch. Are you someplace else?” he said jokingly. 

“Pffht,” Darcy said. “It does remind me of an old movie, though.”

“Seriously?” he said.

“There’s a scene in an old Doris Day movie where her boyfriend takes her out to the country for a romantic trip and they’re sitting in front of a fire, all cozy.”

“I bet it’s got nothing on Ma’s little flame screen,” he joked. His mother had a fake electric fireplace on the wall. One of those that looked like a flatscreen television. It had a row of tiny, flickering flames.

“It was one of those big fifties stone wall fireplaces,” Darcy said. She sort of liked his mother’s little modern fireplace. “I like that, though. Does it change colors?” she asked.

“I fucking hope not,” he said dryly. Darcy grinned. 

“I might get one someday,” she said, just to tease him. “Especially if I can make the little flames more of that blue-purple.”

“Wonderful,” he said. She snuggled in close, pressing kisses into his scarred ear. Another giggle bubbled up. “What?” Brock said.

“The guy in the movie with Doris Day was Rock Hudson,” she whispered. “It does have a little bit of a Brock Rumlow sort of ring, doesn’t it?” Darcy asked. He snorted.

“All right, Doris,” he told her dryly. He shifted her weight she was closer and kissed her. First one kiss on the bridge of her nose, then one on her forehead, and a final one on her mouth. It was all Darcy could do not to squeal eagerly. She slipped up a little. “What was that?” Brock said, clearly amused.

“Um, a tiny little noise of, uh, longing and attraction?” she said lightly. 

“Okay,” he said. “Longing, huh?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Darcy said, blushing. She leaned closer to him. “I should probably do your back and go upstairs,” she said, sighing. “This is a dangerous place for me to be, so late at night--”

“That right?” Brock said, grinning in a frankly naughty way.

“About a half-dozen of your relatives are asleep upstairs,” Darcy reminded him.

“I don’t see ‘em,” he said. “Stay a little longer. We’ll tell Ma you were looking at the Christmas tree.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pazzo can mean "crazy" as in "he's a crazy guy" or "I'm crazy about you."
> 
> https://dailyitalianwords.com/italian-word-for-crazy-pazzo/


	12. Ten Out of Ten Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“You are so busted!” a female voice said. Darcy opened her eyes. There was an unfamiliar ceiling fan above her head. It had a decorative medaillon around it. She blinked. Her contact lenses were cloudy because she’d slept in them. She realized the warm wall at her back was Brock when she looked down and saw his arm draped over her body. It was a very nice arm.

“Ow. Why are you poking at me?” Brock said. “Darcy’s ‘sleep. Cut it out, Fal.”

“I’m awake,” Darcy said, trying to sit up and failing. Brock’s arm was heavy. There was a woman standing behind the couch, peering at her curiously. She had dark brown hair and familiar cheekbones. As Darcy watched, she leaned forward and poked Brock’s foot. He pulled his leg up, away from her.

“She’s young, you dog,” she said, slapping at Brock’s foot this time. 

“You’re hitting me now?” Brock complained. “I’m injured.” Darcy turned her head to look at him. He smiled at her. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said.

“Hi,” Darcy said, unable to stop grinning.

“Awwww,” the stranger said. 

“That’s my idiot sister,” Brock said. “Fallon, this is Darcy.”

“Very funny,” Fallon said. “I’ll get you for that.” Grinning, she turned and cupped her hands over her mouth. “Maaaaaaaaaaa! They’re on the couch together! It’s not decent! My kids are here!” 

“Jesus, Fal,” Brock said. Abruptly, there was a small stampede from the kitchen. Two children, Darcy realized, were shrieking and running towards the couch. They skidded to a stop at the edge of the cushion nearest to Darcy’s face. They were maybe three and five, she thought. The smaller girl stared openly, wide-eyed. The older one looked at Fallon.

“Mom, who the hell is this?” she said.

“Bianca!” Fallon said. 

“Oh, she’s real innocent and sheltered,” Brock said quietly. Bianca grinned at him proudly. “This is my girlfriend,” he told them. “Darcy, this is Bianca and Frankie.”

“Hi,” Darcy said, smiling.

“Hello,” Bianca said, yelling the word. “Merry Christmas!” She danced in a circle. Her sister looked slightly overawed and more shy. Darcy waved at her. Frankie waved back. Bianca shimmied around to face them. “When we doing presents?” she asked. “I want cookies. Cookies, cookies, cookies.”

“She’s just like Fal,” Brock said to Darcy, smirking. “You want cookies?” 

“Yes!” Bianca said. Behind her, Fallon was waving her arms in a frantic pantomime and mouthing the word _no._

“Ma left some in the kitchen, honey. Let me get you some,” he said, sitting up. He put his bare feet on the floor.

“No!” Frankie said suddenly, launching herself at him. 

“What is it?” Brock said, as she patted his legs. 

“Hurt,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t go.” For a moment, Darcy held her breath. She heard Fallon make a noise behind her.

“Me?” Brock said. “I’m fine, honey.” She shook her head vigorously and patted his face. “Well, I’m a little banged up,” Brock said, curling his lips and scrunching his nose. “Whaddya you think, am I scary now?” he said. “Scary Uncle Brock?” Frankie shook her head. Suddenly, he made a growling noise and pretended to bite at Frankie’s hand. She jumped, shrieked, and then dissolved into giggles. He had to catch her and hold her up.

“Scary Uncle Brock! Grrr! Scary Uncle Brock!” Bianca chanted. 

“Yeah?” he said. Darcy snuck a glance at Fallon; she looked relieved. “You scared of me, too?” he asked Bianca.

“Nope!” she said, waving her arms.

“Okay,” he said.

“But Mom says your table manners are frightening,” she said. “Annnnnd your girlfriend is pretty and young. Young, young, young.” She flopped on the floor, waving her arms like she was making a snow angel.

“She does not need more sugar,” Fallon said, sounding desperate. 

“Who gave her sugar in the first place?” Brock asked, setting Frankie on his legs. Darcy was smiling at Frankie whenever the toddler dared to look at her.

“Mike’s mother gave us mini bundt cakes for the road. She got in the bag and ate two of them before I realized,” Fallon said sadly. “I should have known when she was so quiet.”

“Did you get any bundt cake?” Brock asked Frankie. She nodded and held up a finger. “Good,” he said, kissing her forehead. 

“Bundt sounds like butt,” Bianca announced, as Angela came down the stairs.

“Is that my girls?” she said, evidently delighted. 

“Gigi!” Bianca yelled. The girls launched themselves at their grandmother. 

“Who is Gigi?” Brock said.

“She decided she wanted to be Gigi and not Grandma,” Fallon said.

“Since when?” Brock asked. His sister shrugged. “Where’d she get that? Gigi?”

“She probably saw it in a magazine,” Fallon said, making a face.

“You look beautiful--” Angela was saying, as Frankie pointed to her Christmas sweater.

“How’d you get in here?” Brock asked his sister. “And where’s Mike?”

“One, I have a key now, I’m not twelve,” Fallon said. “And he’s looking for a parking space.”

“Oh,” Brock said. He paused. “It’ll be nice to see him at New Year’s.”

“Wiseass,” Fallon said. She stuck out her hand at Darcy. “Ma says you’re very pretty and nice and he doesn’t deserve you.”

“I didn’t say that! Not the last part,” Angela said. “And so what if I saw it in a magazine? I can’t read magazines? And who wants to be called _Grandma?_ ” She pronounced it in an exaggerated way. 

“Ohhh, you’re in trouble,” Brock said.

“Shut up,” Fallon said.

“Good morning, Darcy,” Angela said. 

“Good morning,” Darcy said, feeling slightly embarrassed. “We didn’t--I just fell asleep.”

“She was looking at the Christmas tree,” Brock said.

“That’s what they call it now?” Fallon said. Angela didn’t seem to notice. She was smiling at her grandchildren.

“Who wants Christmas breakfast?” Angela asked the girls.

“We want cookies,” Bianca said. 

“I sorta promised ‘em, Ma,” Brock admitted sheepishly.

“We’ll have cookies,” Angela said.

“Yay!” Bianca squealed.

“She never let us have cookies at breakfast,” Fallon muttered to Brock. He shrugged and kissed Darcy. “Oh, yuck,” Fallon said. 

  
  


It was a noisy, crowded breakfast, but Darcy had a great time. “I’ve never had orange cranberry pancakes before,” she told Angela. “I’m excited.”

“She loves Italian food, Ma,” Brock said. He had taken over his mother’s massive countertop electric griddle. Angela smiled at her brightly, but then looked over at Brock in concern.

“Don’t let that butter pop on you,” his mother said. “It’s hot.”

“Or I’ll get burned?” he joked.

“At least sit in the chair, it’s tall enough,” Angela fretted. 

“He’s very stubborn,” Darcy said. “Please use your chair, babe.” 

“Fine,” Brock said, sighing. He got in the wheelchair.

“You can tell they’re in the beginning of the relationship,” Brock’s cousin Tommy said, “because he does what she tells him.”

“And she’s still concerned about my welfare,” Brock joked back. 

“Hey!” Darcy said. She shook her head at little Frankie. Frankie smiled back shyly. There was a general clatter of voices and plates as pancakes came off the griddle. Darcy helped Frankie cut up her pancakes. Then she cut up a few for Uncle Gino. His hands were a little shaky.

 _“Grazie,”_ he said. He looked at Brock and said something in Italian. Darcy caught the end of the sentence. _“...un mazzo di rose!”_ he said. Fallon laughed.

“What’d he say?” she asked Fallon.

“He told Brock to buy you roses,” she told Darcy.

“Awwww,” Darcy said. “That’s sweet.”

“The old man’s gonna steal your girl,” Tommy called out.

“Shut the fu--shup up,” Brock said, catching himself, as he sat down next to Darcy with his own plate. Bianca and Frankie hadn’t noticed: Frankie was eating carefully and Bianca was drumming on Mike’s arm. 

“You might want to think about it, he’s got a real nice Buick in the garage,” Tommy said to Darcy. “Mint condition. House and a pension, the whole works,” he added, grinning. “They don’t even give you those anymore.” Next to her, Brock made an injured noise.

“That’s a lovely offer, but I like the guy I’ve got,” Darcy said. “He’s very sweet and he doesn’t mind my addiction to popcorn.”

“Popcorn?” Angela said, perplexed.

“I’ve never seen a woman eat so much popcorn, Ma,” Brock said. “She loves popcorn.”

“Somebody always eats the popcorn with me,” Darcy said pointedly. She looked at him. “But you can start making me these pancakes every weekend.”

“I betcha he does it,” Tommy muttered.

“Carb up,” Brock said. “We’re gonna go see some windows.” 

“Do you want to go?” Darcy asked Frankie. Frankie nodded.

* * *

She’d gone upstairs to get ready to leave when Darcy realized she had a voicemail. Probably Jane, she thought, tapping her screen. _“You have one new message,”_ the system said, as she looked for her scarf.

“Where are you, Nancy Drew?” Darcy said out loud.

 _“Darce, it’s me,”_ Ian’s voice said, jolting her out of her preoccupation. _“We need to talk. Please call me. Immediately.”_ His voice was clipped. Darcy stared at the phone for a moment, totally thrown. He was calling her now? Ordering her around? It pissed her off--and ruined some of her holiday mood.

“Well, I’m not doing that,” she decided out loud, hitting the delete button.

 _“You have no new messages,”_ the system said. She tucked her phone into her bag, found her scarf, and went downstairs. Brock was waiting in his wheelchair. He smiled up at her as soon as he saw her on the steps.

“You ready?” he said.

“Yes,” Darcy said, pushing all thoughts of Ian away. “Do you ever wish they hired celebrities to do the voicemail systems and you could pick one?” she asked him. “I had an app where Keith Morrison did my GPS directions, but it was temporary. They took Keith away.”

“Keith Morrison from _Dateline?”_ Fallon said. When Darcy nodded, she grinned wickedly. “Ma, you’ve got a new _Dateline_ buddy!” 

“You think you’re making fun of me, but Anderson Cooper likes true crime and he’s all fancy,” Darcy insisted.

“He does?” Angela said, emerging from the kitchen.

“Yes! He talked about _Murder on Middle Beach_ on TV and I got sucked in,” Darcy said. “It’s sooo good. Like, genuinely alarming, but really good. Did you ever hear about the Gifting Tables in Connecticut? A bunch of rich ladies scamming people they went to AA with!” Darcy said.

“Do you see what you’ve done?” Brock asked his sister.

“What’s a Gifting Table?” Fallon said.

“It’s a multilevel marketing thing. They get new members to give _five thousand dollars_ at dinner parties, so the person at the top gets all this money, and you’re supposed to recruit new people and move up the tiers. It’s crazy.”

“People actually agreed to that?” Brock said, looking stunned. Darcy nodded.

“What is this called?” Angela said avidly, as they left the house. “We should take the bus. It’s better for you,” she told Brock. 

“The subway is inaccessible,” Fallon told Darcy. She lowered her voice. “It’s a fucking crime.” 

“The bus?” Brock said, sighing.

“I’d love it,” Darcy said. “I’ve never seen the whole city before, Brock. It’ll be great.”

“Thank you,” Fallon whispered.

They got to be silly on the bus--actually, several buses. Darcy played goofy Christmas songs for the girls, kissed Brock a few times, and got Fallon to point out major landmarks. They were headed towards Fifth Avenue when Brock looked at her and sighed. “What’s up, Buttercup?” she asked.

“This wasn’t a terrible idea,” he admitted. “You were right.”

“I’ve had terrible ideas before,” Darcy told him. He shook his head. “Remind me to show you pictures of my craft projects, sir. My poor sad painted Christmas ornaments.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“I got this bright idea to glue cinnamon sticks to candles once. Totally Martha Stewart’s fault,” she said.

“Did it smell good?” Fallon asked from the row behind them.

“It had no smell and I burned myself with the hot glue gun,” Darcy said sadly. Fallon laughed. Darcy’s phone dinged. She checked it automatically. It was a text from Ian. Only three words: _Call me,_ he’d written. _Now._ She swiped it away, then reconsidered and typed out a reply.

 _I’m on a trip. I’ll call you when I get back to DC,_ she wrote. _It’ll be a few days._ She didn’t like his commanding tone.

“You okay?” Brock said.

“I am great,” Darcy said. “Where are we going next?”

“Tiffany’s,” Angela said. “She has to see Tiffany’s.”

“Okay,” Darcy said happily.

* * *

She peered into the glass. Behind the window, there was a snowy streetscape--all shades of white and blue--subtly dotted with necklaces and rings. They were in front of the Tiffany’s Christmas windows. It was all Darcy could do to take it all in. It was honestly stunning. “Oh my God,” Darcy said breathlessly.

“You like it?” Brock said. Darcy nodded. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Eh, I kinda like Cartier,” Brock said. 

“Hush, this is magical,” Darcy said. Her sentence was punctuated by Bianca yelling her name.

“Daaaaaarcy, come see the windowwwwwww!” she called out. Fallon, Mike, Angela. and the girls were a few feet away.

“I’m being summoned,” Darcy said. Her phone dinged.

“Who’s blowing up your phone?” Brock said. “Jane?”

“Probably,” Darcy lied. It was actually Ian, she guessed. He’d texted her five minutes ago. She’d told him to stop and silenced her phone for awhile, but it appeared he didn’t get it.

“Darcy,” Brock said quietly. “You’re not a great liar.”

“All right,” she admitted, turning so the rest of the group couldn’t see them. “It’s Ian. But I don’t want to talk to him. Which he knows.”

“Fuck,” Brock said, sighing.

“I won’t let him ruin our Christmas, Brock,” she said. “I’m very happy being here with you.”

“You were engaged to him,” Brock said.

“Yeah, but he’s kind of bossy and mean,” Darcy said, ruffling Brock’s hair. “I’m sure I’ll end up screaming at him on the phone, I just don’t want it to be today. Today’s a ten out of ten day.”

“Ten out of ten?” he said, smiling.

“Daaaaarcy!” Bianca yelled.

“Yes,” she said to Brock, giggling. “God, it’s so good to be around people who are fun.”

“Seriously?” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the world is scary and insane right now, but I wrote this last night and here you go:
> 
> Some images of Christmas windows in NYC: https://walkaboutny.com/the-tours/christmas-windows-tour/
> 
> There was a fab Tiffany's display back in 2013 that I've seen online and was the inspo for this chapter. It's my favorite: https://eabdesigns.typepad.com/my_weblog/2013/12/nyc-holiday-windows-2013-part-ii.html
> 
> But I just realized there was a whole series of Tiffany's windows in collaboration with Baz Luhrmann and Catherine Martin for the Great Gatsby movie (Tiffany provided the film's jewelry), so I really need to see those, too.


	13. The Naughty List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

“I can’t believe you’re fucking doing this with me,” Brock whispered to Darcy. She was kneading his shoulders a little as he wheeled into the church. They were going up the ramp while the rest of the family went up the main steps for Christmas Eve mass.

“What?” she said.

“The Christmas Eve circus,” he muttered. “And church.” He was in full-on grumbly-wumbly mode. She found it entertaining. 

“You think I can’t zone out in a church? Clearly, you’ve never seen Teenage Darcy in Algebra II,” she sassed, giggling. 

“If anybody asks if you’re Catholic, just lie,” he said. “Tonight, I mean. There will be more relatives. They’re damn nosy.”

“Yeah?” Darcy said.

“Yes,” he said. It sounded like a sigh. 

“My plan was to show them my membership card in the First Presleyterian Church of Elvis the Divine,” Darcy said. “If anyone asks.”

“The what?” Brock said, actually turning as they bumped over the threshold. It was a beautiful historic church in the Bronx. 

“You never realized I keep powdered donuts and Pepsi Cola in the house in case of spiritual visitation by the King?” Darcy said, trying to keep her voice even and not give herself away. “What if Elvis swings by sometime and I’m not prepared?”

“Are you serious?” Brock said, as someone held a door open for them. Darcy could hear music spilling out from inside the nave of the church. She nodded. "Are you saying he's still alive?" Brock asked.

"It's theoretically possible, but we say he's always with us in spirit," Darcy said. The church was like ones she'd visited in Europe: wooden pews, marble floors, massive columns, the glitter of gold on the altar in the distance. She peered around curiously, then realized Brock was still craning his head to look at her. "Something wrong?" she said.

"You think Elvis fucking Presley is with us in spirit?" he said.

"Well, yeah," she said. "I mean, he's probably not here--I sort of envision him as going places where there's chicken fried steak or people in need of musical comfort," she said.

“You’re messing with me,” he said, as they found the appropriate seats.

“You think so?” Darcy said, spotting his family group on the left side of the aisle. 

“There they are,” his mother said.

“Hi, Angela!” she said cheerfully. She noticed that Brock wanted to sit in the side aisle farther away, however. She humored him and they went around to sit behind and to the side of his relatives. Darcy enjoyed the part of mass where they got little candles in paper skirts. They were in the middle of mass and Brock was clearly getting sleepy and bored when Darcy reached into her purse and passed him her Presleyterian membership card. 

“Hmm?” he said. Then his eyes widened. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, staring at the little pink square. “A hunka hunka burning love for whosoever believeth in Him?” he said, reading aloud.

“The card came with the membership, but I did the glitter on the edges and laminated it myself,” she whispered. “I’m a very spiritual person.”

“Uh-huh,” Brock said, clearly trying not to laugh in church. “What do you do, make pilgrimages to Vegas or something?”

“No, no,” Darcy whispered back, leaning closer to him. “You do the pilgrimage to Graceland. Maybe Tupelo.”

“Of course. My mistake,” Brock said. 

“You _elope_ to Vegas,” Darcy said, expecting him to grimace.

“Any other important beliefs I should know about?” Brock asked.

“If you get rich, you have to buy your mom a nice house and a Caddy,” Darcy decided, making it up on the fly. He nodded. “Eat whatever you want, sequins and capes are always in style, and when you’re sad, listen to “A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On” and then you'll feel better.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, passing back the card. She noticed his lips were twitching.

“Thank you. Also, creativity in home design is really religiously significant,” she added. “Every home needs it’s own themed rooms, really. How do you feel about tropical wallpaper?” He lost it then, clapping a hand over his mouth and shaking with laughter. In the row ahead of them, Angela turned around and looked over.

“Why are you laughing?” she said in a low, stern voice. “You’re a grown man!” Darcy kept her eyes on the priest, looking ahead as if she didn’t notice. “Stop that!” Angela said. Brock waved dismissively with his free hand, then wiped tears from his eyes. His neck was all flushed.

“You proud of yourself?” he said, face twisting in a grin.

“Extremely,” Darcy said, feeling delighted. He kept losing it during the service. When they wheeled out at the end, he looked chagrined.

“Ma’s gonna be mad at me,” Brock said.

“Nah,” Darcy said. She steered his shoulders towards his mother. “I made him laugh,” Darcy announced. “It was my fault.”

“Oh, honey,” Angela said. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” Brock insisted, cutting in. “Tell her about the stunt you pulled on me,” he told Darcy. “Ma, she belongs to the most crazy ass church--”

“Are you mocking my religious traditions?” Darcy said, raising her eyebrows when he looked at her.

“Don’t upset Darcy and don’t swear on Christmas,” his mother scolded. “Father Mike will hear you!”

“Ooooh,” Darcy said.

“You were nicer to me before we started dating,” Brock muttered. Darcy snorted.

“Sarcasm is just one of the many, many perks I offer to my loved ones,” she told him. “What do we do now?”

“We go home and open fucking presents,” he said in a low voice. 

* * *

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Bianca shrieked, circling around the Christmas tree and threading around the legs of various cousins, aunts, and uncles drinking beverages of various proofs. Darcy was sure a tiny cracked skull was imminent when she rounded the coffee table, but Brock managed to catch his niece and plop her in his lap. 

“Hold on,” he said. “You gotta wait for your sister to open presents,” he said. They were having a big Christmas Eve party. 

“Sissy!” Bianca shouted, looking over the back of the couch, “hurry up!” Frankie was somewhere in the kitchen. Darcy had gathered that she hung around the aunts’ knees and peeked curiously at all the relatives she was uncertain about. Also, the aunts gave the girls lots of cookies. 

“Awww,” Darcy said. She joined Bianca’s chant.

“Sissy, hurry up, sissy, hurry up,” they said in unison. Bianca looked delighted. 

“Don’t encourage her materialism,” Brock said, clearly amused. 

“Booooooo,” Darcy said.

“Booooooo,” Bianca said, joining in. Eventually, Frankie was discovered--she had powdered sugar on her nose--and the girls set on their presents like two tiny hyenas. 

“That’s impressively ruthless,” Darcy said, as Bianca ripped paper and shrieked at ear-splitting volume simultaneously. 

“You want your present?” Brock asked Darcy.

“Later,” she told him, grinning. One of his cousins overheard and whooped loudly.

“Somebody’s getting some tonight!” Tommy shouted.

“Shut up, you--” Brock said, catching himself. Darcy laughed. They stayed on the couch until Bianca and Frankie collapsed in hot chocolate-fueled exhaustion, various relatives shuffled to air mattresses, and even Angela had told them goodnight.

“You two aren’t sleepy?” she asked Darcy and Brock. They were snuggled on the couch, surrounded by bits of paper and a tall stack of cups. “Who stacked those?” Angela asked. The Christmas tree sparkled along with the electric fireplace.

“Darcy’s a stacker, Ma,” Brock said. “You can’t take her to a restaurant without her making a little tower of dishes at the end of the meal.”

“Excuse me, I am descended from a long line of one-time waitresses,” Darcy said.

“Thank you, honey,” Angela said. She took the cups to the kitchen and told them not to stay up too late.

“It’s only three am,” Darcy whispered to Brock. He was looking at the electric fireplace. “The night’s still early.”

“Is it?” he said, giving her a wry, inquisitive look. He pouted and smoldered at her.

“Ughhhh, not the bedroom eyes again!” Darcy mock-complained. “Morning, noon, and night, you endanger my precious virtue!”

“How drunk are you, sweetheart?” Brock asked, eyebrows going up and grin widening.

“I’ve just had a lot of hot cocoa,” she told him. It was perfectly true. He pulled the blankets closer over them and leaned in to kiss her. Darcy sighed. When he reached for the buttons on her plaid shirt, she didn’t stop him. “We have to be careful,” she reminded him.

“I can be real fucking careful,” he said, kissing her lightly. His hands were more focused.

“ERs are not fun places to be on Christmas,” she said, when he pulled back. She wanted to follow his mouth. Yearned for him, really. His eyes tracked her expression. She caught herself smiling and tried to smother the grin.

“I’ve got other plans,” Brock said, smiling back and leaning forward again. Darcy worried her lip between kisses and sighed. “Are you this nervous about going to bed with me?” he said.

“I just don’t want to injure you,” Darcy said. He frowned. “How do we do this without a ton of weight-bearing or skin to skin contact?” she fretted.

“That’s real romantic, sweetheart,” he said.

“We can be romantic later, I’m being practical and healthcare-oriented now,” Darcy said, thinking. He snorted.

“Baby,” he said, voice pleading.

“Don’t do that voice,” she said, “and don’t take your pants all the way off.”

“This feels like high school. Should we be doing this in the car?” Brock cracked.

“Behave,” Darcy said, trying not to grin as she slipped her bra straps down. The Christmas lights lent a glow to his delighted expression. 

“You’re one to talk,” he said. “Why can’t I take my pants off? There’s always gonna be friction--”

“What if we were facing each other?” she said, scrunching her nose. “Is there room?” She looked at the couch and tried to judge depth. 

“Let’s find out,” he said, kissing her again.

“Okay,” she whispered against his lips. They both undressed carefully, negotiating the couch space. Darcy made sure the blanket was underneath them, dodging Brock’s attempts to plant loud, smacking kisses on her face and shoulders. “Cut it out,” she said. “This is serious.”

“Very serious,” he said, smirking and pulling her closer. Darcy was trembling slightly as their bodies touched. “You’re shaking,” he said. They were facing each other on the couch.

“I’m scared and I’m excited,” she admitted. Her palms were damp and she could feel a bead of nervous sweat down her back. He had to put the condom on because she was too unsteady. Brock chuckled. “No making fun!” she told him.

“C’mere, let’s, uh, do this slowly, huh?” he said, cupping the underside of her thigh gently. 

“Why are you calming me down?” she whispered. “Aren’t you nervous?”

“Nah,” he muttered, grinning. “Even if you hurt me, it’s still worth it.” He took her glasses off gently. “Relax, it’ll be fine.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible--oh,” Darcy gasped. He’d moved with more force than she anticipated. “Oh my God,” she murmured, squeezing her eyes shut. He breathed in shakily and she opened them again in alarm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. Even half-blind, she could tell he was smirking. 

* * *

“Are you naked? On Christmas? You perv! My children are gonna see your entire ass!” a voice said. Darcy blinked, then realized it was Fallon in the room with them. Everything was blurry. She could see light coming in through the living room window shades. Whoops. It was morning. Christmas morning.

“Don’t wake up Darcy,” Brock scolded, voice raspy. She felt him shift around under the blankets and cover up their bodies again. “Keep the kids upstairs so we can get dressed, all right?” he bargained.

“Fine,” Fallon said. Darcy heard her footsteps moving away. 

“Can I have my glasses?” she asked, trying not to giggle. 

“Shit,” Brock said. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He put her glasses on carefully. She blinked at him. 

“You’re not supposed to be on top of me,” she told him. “Very naughty. I’m telling Santa.”

“Eh,” he said. “Not my first time on the naughty list.” He smiled at her. “Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The membership card did exist--although the First Presleyterian website is no more, alas. I think Darcy would've laminated hers. Maybe put a photo of Elvis on the reverse. 


End file.
